ED'S  BOOK  SHOP 

Books,  f/agazr  s,  Stationery 
Noveitiss  and   r  jti.g'^ar^ 

te08  PACIFIC  AVENUE 
YEKICE^CAUFORMIA 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS 


RED   MEEKINS 
W.  A.  FRASER 


RED     MEEKINS 


BY 
W.  A.   FRASER 

AUTHOR  OF  "BULLDOG  CARNEY,"  "THE  THREE  SAPPHIRES," 
"THE  LONE  FURROW,"  "THOROUGHBREDS,"  ETC. 


NEW  XHr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1921, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  STREET  AND  SMITH  CORPORATION 
COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY  ASSOCIATED  SUNDAY  MAGAZINES,   INCORPORATED 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I     FOOL'S  GOLD 9 

II    WILD  OATS ...     •  ^7 

III  THE  WEIGHT  OF   METAL       .....  187 

IV  THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE       .....  210 
V    BILLY >     .  233 

VI     FOR  SAVING  LIFE 256 

VII     HILLS  OF  THE  WIND    .     ...     ..     .,    ...    ...     •  278 


RED    MEEKINS 


ED'S  BOOK  SHOP 

Books,  Magazines,  Stationery 
Ntveitiss  and  Greeting  Cards 

1608  PACIFIC  AVENUE 
VENICE,  CALIFORNIA 

RED  MEEKINS 


I 

FOOL'S  GOLD 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  withering  blight  of  pinched-out  veins  had 
fallen  upon  Silver  City.  Like  skeleton  monuments 
to  buried  hopes  a  dozen  hoist  derricks  stood  si- 
lently upon  the  bald,  glaciated  hills. 

Upon  the  veranda  of  a  low-crouching  log  build- 
ing, from  which  hung,  at  an  angle,  a  board  carrying 
the  words,  "Trout's  Hotel,"  stood  its  owner  gazing 
dejectedly  down  the  deserted  street. 

The  scheme  of  Peloo  Trout's  physical  architec- 
ture lent  itself  admirably  to  dejection.  His  huge, 
gaunt  frame  was  topped  by  a  headpiece  that 
well  might  have  been  posed  for  a  full-whiskered 
gargoyle.  He  spat  a  derisive  jet  of  tobacco  juice 
out  to  the  roadway,  and,  dropping  into  a  chair 
beside  a  heavy-shouldered  man  with  an  emblazoned 
crest,  voiced  his  pessimistic  deductions:  "This 
town's  deader'n  a  doornail — do  you  sabe  that,  Mr. 
Red  Meekins?" 

"If  I  had  the  dough,  I'd  pull  my  freight  for  the 

9 


10  RED  MEEKINS 

Badger  gold  fields,"  Meekins  declared.  "Wish 
some  sucker'd  drop  into  town  an'  grubstake  me." 

"I'd  stake  you  if  I  could  sell  this  hash  joint." 

"Advertise,"   Meekins  advised  laconically. 

"I  did.  I  put  a  notice  on  a  board,  an'  Lucky 
Flynn  shot  it  to  smithereens.  He  allowed  the  name 
Peloo  looked  like  a  string  of  bull's-eyes.  Hello  1 
Here  comes  your  sucker  now,  Red." 

A  wagon  was  coming  up  the  street.  It  stopped 
in  front  of  the  hotel,  and  two  men  descended. 
"One  of  'em  is  that  French  half-breed,  Felix 
Dubois,"  Peloo  said,  "but  the  man  in  pantalettes 


is  a  new  one  on  me." 


There  was  something  pantherlike  about  the  half- 
breed's  movements  as  he  lifted  to  the  ground  their 
travelling  outfit.  His  slim,  wiry  frame  moved  with 
the  subtle,  undulating  strength  of  a  steel  coil.  His 
eyes  were  black — fiercely  black,  and  as  predatory 
as  his  thin,  hawk  nose.  The  useful  prospector's 
garb,  khaki  pants,  brown  leather  shoe  packs,  and 
short  Mackinaw  coat  contrasted  with  the  elaborate 
tourist  gear  that  his  companion  had  evidently  ac- 
quired of  a  London  outfitter. 

Peloo  welcomed  the  half-breed  when  the  two 
came  up  the  veranda,  saying:  "Hope  you're  well, 
M'sieu  Felix." 

"I'm  fine,  me,"  Dubois  answered.  "Dis  is  M'sieu 
St.  John,  from  London;  m'sieu  is  beeg  man  for  buy 
mine.  Dis  is  M'sieu  Peloo  Trout."  Meekins  was 
swept  into  the  introduction  as  he  rose  to  depart. 

The  stranger  tendered  Peloo  a  card,  and  Trout 


FOOL'S  GOLD  11 

threaded  his  way  laboriously  through  the  labyrinth- 
ian  legend: 

Mr.  George  Cawthra  Sackville  St  John. 

Not  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy,  he  plunged  his 
huge  hand  into  a  capacious  pocket  and  fished  out  a 
pasteboard  which  carried  the  concise  announcement : 

MR.  PELOO  TROUT, 

Mining  Broker. 

"That's  my  main  bus'ness — brokerin',''  Peloo 
advised;  "this  hotel's  more  on  the  side." 

Felix,  all  on  the  alert,  asked:  "Where  dat  minin' 
engineer,  Sam  Wallace?" 

"Lit  out,"  Peloo  answered  tersely. 

"Dave  Lane — he  here?"  Felix  queried. 

Peloo  drew  a  massive  hand  down  his  whiskers, 
and  delivered  a  comprehensive  answer  that  took 
cognisance  of  questions  to  come :  "There  ain't 
nobody  here,  an'  there'll  be  fewer  next  week.  This 
town's  closed  for  the  season." 

"Really!     What  are  we  to  do?"  St.  John  asked. 

The  restless  breed  was  shuffling  his  shoe  packs 
on  the  floor  with  a  rasping,  restless  impatience: 
"By  gar,  dat  some  minin'  town  widout  no  minin' 
man!" 

"You  see,"  the  placid  voice  of  St.  John  took  up, 
"I  am  on  my  way  to  inspect  a  property  of  Mr. 
Dubois's,  and  I  expected  to  get  Mr.  Wallace  or 
Mr.  Lane  to  go  with  us." 

"Why  didn't  you  bring  an  engineer  from  To- 
ronto?" Peloo  asked. 


12  RED  MEEKINS 

"Nonf"  Felix  declared  contemptuously.  "De 
good  man  he's  all  at  de  mines;  dere's  'bout  fifty 
t'ousand  minin'  engineers  lef  in  Toronto  don'  know 
gol'  from  brass.  M'sieu  St.  John  he's  been  intro- 
duce' to  me  by  frien'  who  tol'  heem  'bout  my  gol' 

mine.  I  show  heem  de  speciman "  Here 

Dubois  thrust  into  Peloo's  hand  the  specimen.  It 
was  the  size  of  an  egg,  very  beautiful,  the  yellow 
golden  metal  plastered  between  creamy  white 
quartz.  "Dat's  fine,  eh,  Peloo?  I  got  forty  acre 
of  dat." 

"About  the  engineer "  St.  John  suggested. 

"Yes,"  Felix,  switching  back,  continued,  "dis- 
friend',  who  is  beeg  man  in  Toronto,  recommen' 
M'sieu  Wallace  or  Dave  Lane." 

"This  puts  us  in  a  hat,  Mr.  Trout.  No  doubt 
Mr.  Dubois  can  show  me,  as  he  says,  acres  of  gold, 
but  Londoners  are  conservative — they'd  insist  on 
seeing  a  report." 

"That  gold  wouldn't  do  'em,  eh,  Mr.— er— ah?" 
Peloo  queried. 

"Not  at  all.  Anybody  having  a  five-pound  share 
in  the  company  couldn't  come  all  the  way  out  here 
to  look  at  the  gold,  could  he?" 

St.  John's  query  was  punctuated  by  a  squeal  from 
Felix,  upon  whose  toe  Peloo  had  pressed  an  enor- 
mous boot.  As  he  glared  at  Trout  he  saw  the 
latter's  right  eye  close  and  then  pop  open,  unshield- 
ing  a  look  that  conveyed  something.  The  some- 
thing developed  immediately. 

"Well,  mister,   there   ain't  a  engineer  that  I'd 


FOOL'S  GOLD  13 

trust  furder'n  you'd  sling  a  bull  by  the  tail  within 
a  hundred  miles  of  this  sweet  village  except  Mr. 
Meekins." 

If  it  had  not  been  for  the  crushed  toe  and  the 
little  bead  eye  that  was  even  now  telegraphing, 
Felix  would  have  rolled  on  the  floor,  convulsed  with 
laughter.  Inwardly  he  was  muttering:  "Nom  du 
chienf  Red  Meekins — engineer!" 

"The  gentleman  who  has  just  left  us?"  St.  John 
queried. 

"That's  him,  an'  he's  a  hustler  from  'way  back. 
He's  got  'em  all  skinned  when  it  comes  to  holdin' 
his  ear  to  the  ground;  he  jus'  talks  secrets  to  old 
earth." 

Peloo  had  a  feeling  that  Felix  was  ready  to  ex- 
postulate, so  he  kept  up  his  eulogy  of  Meekins. 
"Red  is  known  from  the  Klondike  to  Mexico. 
Why,  he  staked  the  Pink  Eye  Mine  an'  the  Spotted 
Dog;  I  wouldn't  put  a  dollar  into  a  prospect  with- 
out Meekins  see  it  first.  He's  practical.  Some  of 
'em  School  of  Mines  grafters  comes  up  here  with  a 
'M.  E.'  after  their  names  an'  go  out  an'  give  a  stone 
quarry  a  diploma,  till  you'd  think  it  was  a  drawin'- 
room  with  gold  statues.  They  get  the  strike  an' 
the  tip  an'  the  calcites  an'  the  quartzites  all  wrote 
in  sweet  an'  proper  in  the  certif  cate,  an'  down  in 
Toronto  the  people  fight  for  the  shares.  Over  in 
Cobalt  there  was  about  a  thousand  comp'nies  sold 
stock  to  the  woolly  public,  an'  every  one  of  'em 
comp'nies  had  a  jim-dandy  report  signed  by  some 
M.  E.,  an'  about  twenty  mines  made  good.  Now, 


14.  RED  MEEKINS 

Meekins  ain'  like  that;  he's  practical.  He  knows 
a  mine  from  a  moose  yard,  an'  there  ain't  money 
enough  in  Silver  City  to  bribe  him." 

"My  dear  sir,"  St.  John  offered,  "I'm  afraid  that 
a  strictly  practical  man,  you  know,  would  hardly  be 
the  proper  person.  I  should  require  a  report  tech- 
nically convincing.'* 

"An'  that's  what  you'll  get  from  Mr.  Meekins — 
technically  O.  K,  When  I  say  he's  practical  I  don't 
mean  he's  got  to  quarry  all  the  mineral  out  of  a 
mine  before  he  can  tell  you  what's  there.  No,  siree, 
Mr.  Meekins  is  a  jim-dandy  engineer — none  bet- 
ter." 

St.  John  made  no  comment,  and  Peloo  added 
briskly:  "I'll  see  him  about  it;  I'm  kind  of  feared 
he's  pretty  busy*'* 

After  supper  Peloo,  Meekins,  and  Dubois  met 
in  a  little  room  while  St.  John  smoked  his  pipe  on 
the  veranda. 

"Show  Red  that  chunk  of  metal,  Felix,"  Peloo 
commanded. 

Dubois  passed  the  gold  quartz  to  Meekins,  and 
Peloo  added:  "You  ain't  no  prospector,  Felix,  as 
I  ever  heerd  of;  how'd  you  come  by  this  find?" 

"I  was  killin'  fur — trapping"  the  Frenchman 
snapped. 

"Do  you  think,  Red,  that  Felix  found  that  family 
plate  while  he  was  snarin'  rabbits?" 

"What  you  mean?"     Felix  was  angry. 

"That  specimen  never  come  from  the  surface, 
Felix,  an'  if  you  put  that  over  on  the  Englisher -" 


FOOL'S  GOLD  15 

Dubois  spat  in  a  catlike  rage,  "You  t'ink  I'm 
wan  fool,  m'sieu?" 

"Me  an'  Red  wouldn't  be  wastin'  time  here  if 
we  thought  that,  Felix.  But  we're  goin'  to  be 
honest;  we  ain't  goin'  to  rob  nobody  but  the 
stranger,  an'  there's  no  use  totin'  the  gent  off  into 
the  woods  if  there's  no  stuff  like  that  on  your  claim. 
Me  an'  Red  ain't  got  morals  enough  between  the 
two  of  us  to  stake  an  ordinary  preacher,  but  if 
you  ain't  got  the  gold  we're  not  in  on  it  even  against 
an  outsider." 

"Ver'  kind,  M'sieu  Peloo,"  Dubois  said  sarcas- 
tically; "an'  if  my  mine  is  good  wan,  your  engineer, 
M'sieu  Meekins,  will  say  so  an'  get  beeg  fee,  eh? 
Oh,  nom  de  Dleu!  Red  Meekins  is  engineer  for 
inspec'  my  property!"  And  he  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  and  cackled. 

Meekins  turned  to  Trout,  growling:  "I  ain't  no 
engineer;  I  never  said  I  was." 

"Yes,  you  are,"  Peloo  declared.  "It's  knowin' 
things,  not  diplomas,  that  makes  an  engineer  worth 
a  hang.  There  ain't  a  mineral-bearin'  rock  that 
you  don't  know  the  name  of;  there  ain't  one  of  'em 
that  wouldn't  get  up  on  its  hind  legs  an'  say,  'Hello, 
Red,'  if  you  was  to  meet.  The  kid  rocks  like 
Huronian  an'  conglomerate,  an'  the  gran'pa  rocks, 
diabase  an'  granite — why,  you've  slept  with  'em. 
An'  as  to  gold,  the  old  saying'  goes,  'Gold  is  where 
you  find  it.'  " 

"But  when  it  come  to  writin1  the  geol'gy  of  'em 
rocks  I'd  be  a  laugh." 


16  RED  MEEKINS 

Peloo  leaned  forward,  and,  shaking  a  long  finger 
in  the  speaker's  face,  said  dramatically:  "That's 
where  I  come  in,  Red.  You  gather  up  the  macadam 
on  Felix's  gold  farm  an'  tell  me  what  the  chunks 
is  an'  I'll  write  out  the  family  hist'ry  of  that  mine." 

Red  stared,  and  Felix  clucked  his  tongue  in  his 
cheek.  Peloo  drew  a  large  sheaf  of  papers  from 
his  pocket  and  spread  them  on  the  table.  "It's  as 
easy  as  peelin'  onions,"  he  asserted.  "That's  Pro- 
fessor Bluem's  report  on  the  Badger  Lake  country, 
designed  an'  executed  all  proper;  an'  here  is  a  re- 
port on  the  Fat  Hog  Lake  gold  field.  Here's  five 
other  mine  reports  that  an  engineer  left  in  his  room 
when  he  skipped  out  an'  left  me  his  board  bill  to 
file.  Here's  all  'em  mineral  rocks  in  their  dress 
suits — schists,  ankerites,  dolomites" — Peloo  was 
reading  from  a  report.  "How  does  it  strike  you 
now,  Felix?" 

"What  you  expec'  make  out  of  dis?"  Dubois 
asked  suspiciously. 

"Red's  fee'll  be  five  hundred  plunks;  the  buyer'll 
pay  that  as  usual.  My  firm,  Peloo  Trout  &  Co., '11 
look  to  you  for  the  commission — ten  per  cent;  the 
seller  always  pays  that." 

Dubois  gasped.  "By  gar!  I  don'  need  no 
broker,  me;  I've  sol'  de  mine." 

"No  mine  ain't  never  sold  till  you've  got  the 
cash,  Felix.  Don't  be  in  no  hurry;  just  let  that 
soak  in,"  and  Peloo  lighted  his  pipe  and  put  the 
papers  in  his  pocket. 

It  gradually  soaked  into  Dubois's  mind,  eager  to 


FOOL'S  GOLD  17 

sell  his  mine,  that  ninety  per  cent  of  the  price  would 
be  better  than  perhaps  losing  it  all.  Smothering 
his  anger,  he  said:  "If  M'sieu  St.  John  is  satisfy, 
I  don'  care,  me." 

"Then  just  put  your  autograph  to  this  commis- 
sion letter."  And  Peloo  put  in  front  of  Dubois  a 
document  he  had  already  prepared. 

When  they  joined  St.  John  on  the  veranda  Trout 
explained  in  a  charmingly  offhand  way  that  it  was 
all  settled.  Mr.  Meekins  had  agreed  to  go,  and 
that,  as  he  himself  felt  a  kindly  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter, he  was  also  going.  "You  just  leave  it  to  me 
an'  Meekins,"  Peloo  advised;  "we'll  put  Felix's 
claim  in  the  witness  box  an'  convict  it  of  bein'  a  mine 
or  its  owner  a  four-flusher." 


CHAPTER  II 

St.  John  felt  somewhat  as  Felix  had,  a  state  of 
helplessness;  he  must  either  go  forward  in  the 
hands  of  these  seemingly  capable  men  or  go  back. 

As  to  Peloo,  he  simply  completed  arrangements 
— hired  two  guides,  two  canoes  which  he  stocked 
with  steel,  dynamite,  food — all  that  was  required. 
The  second  morning  they  were  under  way. 

There  was  a  week  of  canoe  travel;  first  upstream 
for  four  days  to  the  height  of  land — the  divide  on 
the  watershed,  and  then  two  days  of  swift  glide 
down  rushing  waters.  There  were  portages  and 
rapids  to  run,  and  many  things  new  to  the  Lon- 


18  RED  MEEKINS 

doner.  At  Beaver  Landing,  they  left  the  canoes, 
and,  led  by  Big  Little  Joe,  the  guide,  packed  their 
outfit  over  a  trail  that  led  across  a  wilderness  of 
muskeg. 

On  the  second  day  they  came  flat  up  against  a 
rock,  and  when  they  had  climbed  to  its  top,  Felix, 
with  a  whoop  of  joy,  pointed  to  an  old  log  shack, 
proudly  announcing  that  that  was  his  claim. 

After  they  had  eaten,  Felix  showed  them  his  dis- 
covery vein.  Originally  it  had  shown  in  one  small 
exposure,  but  where  they  stood  now,  as  Meekins 
stepped  it  off,  it  was  twenty-two  feet  in  width.  It 
was  a  vein  of  ankerite  schist  cut  by  stringers  of 
quartz,  and  in  these  quartz  stringers  little  beads  of 
gold  like  shirt  studs  showed. 

Felix  took  St.  John  along  the  outcrop  of  the  vein, 
and  Meekins  sent  Big  Little  Joe  and  his  mate  to 
bring  sledges  and  steel  to  drill  a  row  of  popholes 
across  the  vein. 

"There's  somethin'  wrong  about  this  find  of  gold, 
Peloo,"  Red  said.  "In  the  first  place,  Felix  didn't 
strip  this  vein;  he's  lived  too  long  in  the  bush  to 
dig  a  duck  pond  when  all  he'd  got  to  do  is  run  a 
smaller  trench  at  right  angles  to  these  stringers. 
An'  that  gold  specimen  never  come  off  this  outcrop." 

"It  never  come  off  this  claim,"  Peloo  declared. 

"I  believe  it  did.  The  feller  that  hog-rooted 
that  earth  up  found  a  rich  outcrop  somewhere,  an' 
p'raps  he  wouldn't  tell  Felix,  an'  I  wouldn't  put 
it  past  the  breed  to  knock  him  on  the  head  to  steal 
the  whole  thing." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  19 

"When  we  was  comin'  over  the  trail,"  Peloo 
commented,  "an'  I  was  askin'  Felix  where  we  was, 
he  ups  an'  says  that  he  didn't  come  in  this  way  be- 
fore; that  he  hadn't  no  canoe,  an'  had  to  go  way 
round  the  other  way." 

Little  Joe  had  brought  the  sledges  and  steel,  and 
Meekins  drilled  a  number  of  shallow  holes  across 
the  vein,  blew  them  out  with  dynamite,  ground  a 
collection  of  rock  in  a  mortar  he  had  brought,  and, 
panning  the  powder  in  the  fry  pan,  showed  St.  John 
a  fairy-like  thread  of  gold  lying  along  the  edge  of 
the  white  grit. 

"She's  a  rich  one  if  she  only  goes  down  deep 
enough,"  was  Red's  comment. 

After  supper  Peloo  built  a  couple  of  smudge  fires 
to  keep  off  the  mosquitoes,  and  accompanied 
Meekins  to  the  shack  to  help  the  latter  with  his 
field  notes.  It  was  an  old  shack  that  had  probably 
been  built  by  some  trapper. 

"Wonder  what  English  had  in  his  crop  when  he 
asked  me  to-day  if  I'd  ever  see  a  feller  as  looked 
like  him  out  in  these  parts,"  Meekins  said  as  he 
pulled  inside  the  string  that  lifted  the  wooden  latch. 

"What'dyou  tell  him?" 

"I  told  him  I'd  seen  a  slew  of  'em — dozens;  an' 
he  never  give  a  cackle.  Don't  you  s'pose  he  never 
catches  on?" 

"He's  huntin'  for  somebody  that's  got  lost  out 
here,  Red.  Do  you  remember  Lord  Happy,  that 
boozin'  Englishman  at  Haileybury?" 

"Yes." 


20  RED  MEEKINS 

"Well,  from  what  St.  John  says  an'  asks,  I  be- 
lieve that's  the  man  he's  after.  But  I  ain't  goin'  to 
give  nobody  away  till  I  know  what's  the  game." 

Peloo  had  spread  his  literature  on  the  table,  and 
Meekins,  sitting  opposite,  had  his  rock  samples 
ready. 

"I  can't  just  make  out  whether  this  is  diabase  or 
Keewatin."  Red  rubbed  his  thumb  over  the  texture. 
"It's  greenish  gray,  Peloo." 

"Here  she  am,"  Peloo  answered  gleefully,  flat- 
tening the  leaves  of  the  mining  journal  at  a  page 
of  colored  rocks.  "One'd  think  they  was  twins," 
and,  clearing  his  throat,  he  read: 

"In  the  Badger  Area  some  of  the  Keewatin  rocks 
have  escaped  dynamic  metamorphic  agencies  suf- 
ficient to  show  their  original  character;  certain 
basalts  still  retain  quite  perfectly  their  amygdaloidal 
texture  and  ellipsoidal  structure.  Most  of  the 
Keewatin  in  the  Badger  Area  consists  of  dark- 
colored  or  greenish  massive  or  schistose  rocks  of 
basic  or  intermediate  composition. 

"That  means  the  rock  you've  got  in  your  paw, 
ain't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  she's  Keewatin  all  right;  we'll 
label  her." 

Peloo  wrote  out  Keewatin,  and  it  was  pasted  on 
the  rock.  He  numbered  it  "I,"  with  a  correspond- 
ing number  on  that  section  of  the  report.  "It's 
goin'  to  be  easy,  Red,"  he  advised.  "Besides  it's 
on  the  level."  He  put  his  big  paw  confidently  on 
the  mining  manual.  "I'll  bet  there's  a  description 


FOOL'S  GOLD  21 

in  this  here  catalogue  of  every  kind  of  rock  this 
forty  acres  can  cough  up." 

Meekins  pushed  two  fragments  across  the  table, 
and  after  a  long  search  Peloo  read  the  following: 

"Quartz-porphyry  is,  however,  a  rather  common 
rock  in  the  Badger  Area.  While  it  occurs  charac- 
teristically in  dikes  cutting  green  schists,  it  is  also 
found  in  larger  masses.  Certain  quartz-porphyry 
dikes  have  been  subjected  to  pressure  and  broken 
up  and  now  resemble  conglomerate.  The  meta- 
morphic  action  has  produced  a  dark-greenish  base 
through  which  are  set  fragments  of  the  porphyry." 

"That's  the  piece  that  looks  like  head-cheese, 
ain't  it,  Red?  That's  quartz-porphyry." 

It  was  duly  labelled  quartz-porphyry.  Meekins 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  a  tired  sigh.  "If  you 
hadn't  read  'em  jawbreakers  out  of  that  there  book, 
I'd  'a'  called  it  diabase. 

"Diabase — diabase?"  muttered  Peloo  reflec- 
tively. "I  see  something  on  a  back  page  about 
diabase.  Here  she  is!  Say,.  Red,  this  game's  as 
easy  as  gettin'  measles.  Listen: 

"Olivine  Diabase:  Several  dikes  of  olivine  dia- 
base cutting  the  Keewatin  have  been  found  in  this 
area.  The  olivine  diabase  in  the  Badger  area  is 
considered  to  be  of  post-middle  Huronian  age. 

"Got  some  of  the  Olivine  stuff,  Red,  'cause  here's 
its  name?" 

"That's  diabase."  Meekins  rubbed  his  thumb 
over  a  rather  smooth,  greenish  piece. 


22  RED  MEEKINS 

"We  got  him  dead  to  rights,  age  an'  all,"  Peloo 
added. 

"That  Olivine's  new  to  me,"  Red  admitted. 
"They  call  it  greenstone  an'  let  it  go  at  that  in 
Cobalt." 

"No.  3,"  Peloo  declared  as  he  thumped  the 
label  on. 

"I'd  rather  be  drillin'  holes  out  in  the  rock,"  said 
Red  mournfully. 

"You  wouldn't  get  five  hundred  for  it.  You  stick 
to  me  an'  you'll  be  travellin'  'round  the  country  in 
a  flivver." 

Meekins  was  examining  with  his  glass  a  piece 
of  rock  that  on  one  side  had  a  rusted-iron  finish, 
while  the  reverse  was  creamy  white,  with  little 
touches  of  blue  and  green. 

"What's  that?"  Trout  asked. 

"  'Bout  an  hour  ago  I'd've  called  it  gold-bearin' 
quartz,  but  since  I  stacked  up  against  that  book  I 
wouldn't  argue  that  it  wasn't  a  doorknob  off  the 
pearly  gates." 

Peloo  held  out  his  hand.  "Let  me  have  it;  here's 
a  cut  that  looks  kinder  similar.  I  guess  it's  quartz 
all  right,  but  we're  writin'  a  scientific  report.  There 
you  be,  as  good  a  fit  as  you  ever  see."  He  placed 
the  rock  beside  a  coloured  plate  for  comparison. 
"There's  her  name,  too,  as  the  professors  have 
christened  her — jaspilyte.  Read  it,  Red." 

Peloo  filled  his  pipe  while  Meekins  waded 
through  the  following: 


FOOL'S  GOLD  «3 

"Associated  with  the  Keewatin  is  much  iron 
formation.  This  iron  formation  is  what  is  com- 
monly called  jaspilyte,  and  consists  of  thin  bands 
of  magnetite  and  silica,  the  latter  being  frequently 
red  in  colour." 

"That  piece  has  got  'jaspilyte'  gtamped  on  its 
features,  ain't  it,  Red?" 

"Hanged  if  I  know  I  What's  the  matter  with 
this  as  a  finger  print : 

"Many  of  the  Keewatin  rocks  contain  consid- 
erable carbonate  calcite,  dolomite,  or  a  ferruginous 
carbonate,  giving  rise  to  crystalline  limestone  which 
is  usually  rusty-weathered." 

"That's  kind  of  evidence  from  the  other  side, 
ain't  it?"  Peloo  admitted. 

"Yes,  this  's  got  the  rusty  weatherin',  an'  it's 
crystallized  all  right.  Seems  to  me  that  book  tries 
to  prove  too  much,  Peloo;  it  gets  mixed." 

Meekins  applied  the  magnifying  glass  to  the  rock 
in  dispute.  "It  might  be  a  glass  eye  out  of  a  dead 
mummy  accordin'  to  that  book,  but  it  carries  free 
gold,"  he  declared.  "I  guess  we'll  just  tag  this 
pebble  gold-bearin'  quartz." 

"  'Taint  official  enough,"  Peloo  objected  deci- 
sively. "That's  what  every  trail  musher  says  when 
he  brings  in  a  find,  'gold-bearin'  quartz.'  ' 

"I  know  what  this  four-flushin'  at  book  minin'  '11 
run  into — that  English'll  cable  me  from  London 
wantin'  to  know  if  I  ain't  got  the  names  mixed. 
I'm  like  that  bank  clerk  that  come  into  Haileybury 
as  a  bartender,  an'  the  first  cocktail  he  slung  to- 


24  RED  MEEKINS 

gather  for  Smooth  Pud  Wilson  won  him  a  black 
eye." 

"You've  took  the  wrong  trail,  Red;  you're  just 
as  far  in  right  as  the  mahogany-desk  engineers. 
Listen  to  this: 

"Conglomerates  and  grey  whacks  of  Huronian 
age  occur  sparingly  on  these  properties,  at  times 
altered  to  schists,  and  thus  making  it  difficult  and 
impossible  to  distinguish  them  from  Keewatin 
schists. 

"See,  Red,  this  feller  owns  up  that  it  ain't  no 
cinch  to  address  these  rocks  by  their  proper  names 
every  time." 

"That  don't  help  me  get  the  name  of  this  pock- 
faced  cuss!"  And  Meekins  banged  a  crystallized 
rock  on  the  table. 

"I  got  it!"     Peloo  read  from  the  book: 

"On  the  Fish  Tail  properties  a  vein  has  a  width 
at  one  point  of  twenty-two  feet  and  consists  of 
ankerite  which  is  cut  by  numerous  strings  of  quartz- 
porphyry. 

"Our  vein  is  about  twenty-two  feet  wide,  so  just 
soak  down  that  piece  as  quartz-porphyry  in  anker- 
ite." 

"I  was  guessin'  when  I  started,  an'  that  book  has 
got  me  talkin'  to  myself,"  Meekins  growled  as  he 
pasted  this  name  on  the  exhibit. 

"Just  to  prove  there  ain't  no  one  goin'  to  call 
you,  listen  to  this: 

"The  Huronian  in  this  area  has  been  subjected  to 
intense  dynamic  metamorphism,  and  it  is  difficult  to 


FOOL'S  GOLD  25 

distinguish  Huronian  schist  or  other  highly  meta- 
morphosed rocks  of  this  age  from  the  Keewatin, 
so  the  pre-Cambrian  geologist  may  be  excused  if  he 
makes  a  mistake. 

"Now  what  do  you  think?"  Trout  queried. 

"I  ain't  thinkin'.  You  ain't  got  a  headache 
powder  in  your  stockin',  have  you,  Peloo?"  Then 
he  roused  and  asked  angrily:  "Have  I  got  to  go  to 
school  to  that  cussed  book  all  the  time  I'm  up 
here?" 

A  knock  caused  Trout  to  hurriedly  shove  the 
book  in  his  canvas  bag;  then  he  opened  the  door. 
"You  kind  of  jumped  me;  I  been  havin'  a  little 
snooze  while  Meekins  writ  his  notes,"  Peloo  said 
as  St.  John  entered. 

There  was  no  more  work  that  night,  for  St.  John 
talked  till  they  turned  in. 

The  next  day  St.  John,  wandering  about,  saw 
some  partridges.  Out  of  curiosity  he  followed  them 
down  off  the  rock  into  a  cedar-studded  muskeg.  A 
few  twistings  in  and  out  and  he  was  lost;  like  a  flash 
it  came  to  him  that  the  direction  in  which  the  rock 
island  lay  was  unknown. 

His  walk  grew  faster  as  he  travelled  and  came 
to  nothing  familiar;  it  had  increased  to  a  run  when 
a  root  caught  his  toe  and  he  landed  on  the  head  in 
the  black  ooze. 

Above  him  a  rasping  voice  jeered:  "Aw-w-w! 
He-he !" 

Wiping  the  mud  from  his  eyes,  St.  John  saw  a 
blue-grey  bird,  with  head  cocked  to  one  side,  wink 


26  RED  MEEKINS 

a  black,  beady  eye.  "You're  right,  my  friend;  I'm 
a  bally  ass  to  run,"  he  admitted. 

He  sat  down,  through  his  mind  flashing  memories 
of  stories  he  had  read  of  men  being  lost  in  the 
great  forests.  Suddenly  the  booming  note  of  a 
voice  singing  came  floating  through  the  whispering 
leaves.  St.  John  sprang  to  his  feet.  The  voice 
sounded  in  the  very  opposite  direction  from  that 
in  which  his  friends  should  be.  However,  he  hur- 
ried toward  the  music,  and  in  five  minutes  came  to 
a  rock  that  rose  out  of  the  swamp  just  as  did  Felix's. 

The  song  had  ceased,  but  as  he  came  to  the  very 
edge  of  the  big  stone  St.  John  heard  a  voice  saying: 

"Johnnie  Bull  pays  me  to  look  after  his  interests, 
Felix;  that's  why  I'm  goin'  to  sink  a  test  pit  on  this 
vein.  It  don't  mean  everything,  but  it'll  show 
whether  this  is  just  a  grass-root  flash  in  the  pan  or 
a  body  of  ore.  It'll  be  worth  more  than  fifty  sheets 
of  writin'  in  a  report." 

"Dat'll  take  'bout  a  week,  an'  he  don'  ask  for  no 
tes'  pit." 

"He  gives  me  five  hundred  to  do  the  best  I  know; 
that's  enough  for  me." 

"M'sieu  Red" — Dubois's  voice  had  taken  on  an 
oily  softness — "if  M'sieu  St.  John  buy  de  mine,  I 
give  you  five  hun'red,  too." 

There  was  a  minute's  silence,  then  Red's  voice, 
full  of  repression,  answered:  "If  I  had  about  seven 
Scotches  in  me,  Felix,  there'd  be  a  bad,  smashed-up 
breed  lyin'  round  here  in  a  holy  minute.  You'd  best 
get  out  or  I  might  think  I  had  'em  drinks  in  me." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  27 

St.  John,  possessed  of  a  mixed  feeling  of  delight 
in  Red's  honesty,  and  self-condemnation  at  playing 
the  eavesdropper,  made  his  way,  by  a  circuit,  to  the 
top  of  the  rock. 

Meekins  started  in  at  his  test  pit  with  steel  drills, 
lifting  out  the  rock  segments  with  the  brown  candles 
of  dynamite.  It  took  four  days  to  sink  a  shaft  of 
about  ten  feet,  the  gold  showing  richer  at  the  bot- 
tom than  the  top.  Each  evening  Trout  and 
Meekins  laboured  over  their  guiding  manual  and 
the  rock  fragments,  Meekins  always  a  prey  to  mis- 
givings. 

In  the  bottom  of  the  test  pit  a  small  crevice  had 
appeared  in  the  rock.  "I  wonder  if  that  opens  up?" 
Peloo  said  reflectively.  He  took  up  a  steel  drill, 
inserted  its  chisel  end  in  the  crack,  and,  squatting 
down,  said:  "Hit  this  a  few  clouts,  Red,  same's 
you  was  bustin'  into  a  keg  of  beer." 

Meekins  swung  the  heavy  sledge,  and  at  the  first 
drive  the  steel  bar  broke  through  so  swiftly  that 
it  slipped  through  Peloo's  hands,  its  burred  top 
nailing  his  thumb  and  fingers  to  the  hard-faced  rock. 
With  a  yell  Peloo  tore  his  hand  loose,  and,  with 
fingers  under  his  arm,  pranced  around  in  an  Indian 
war  dance. 

It  was  too  much  for  Meekins ;  he  laughed. 

"Yap,  you  dang  red-headed  fool!"  yelled  Peloo. 
"One'd  think  you  was  tryin'  to  boost  the  hittin' 
machine  with  a  maul  at  a  country  fair,  the  way  you 
hit  that  steel." 


28  RED  MEEKINS 

"I  can't  get  that  bar  out  again,"  Meekins  growled 
as  he  felt  of  the  steel. 

"It'll  stay  there  till  hell  freezes  over  before  I'll 
help  you  get  it  out,"  Peloo  asserted. 

The  result  of  a  few  more  words  was  that  the  bar 
was  left.  And  this  incident  later  on  had  a  big  in- 
fluence on  their  lives. 

The  claim  had  been  very  practically  examined; 
it  was  evident  to  all  that  it  gave  promise  as  a  gold 
mine. 

So  they  set  their  faces  homeward. 


CHAPTER  m 

On  their  way  out  St.  John,  Peloo,  and  Meekins 
were  in  one  canoe,  while  Felix  and  the  guides  were 
in  the  other. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  they  were  glid- 
ing swiftly  downstream,  having  passed  the  height 
of  land,  when  Peloo,  whose  canoe  was  well  in  the 
lead,  made  the  mistake,  where  the  stream  forked, 
of  taking  the  west  branch.  Turning  a  bend  whose 
banks,  covered  with  heavy  spruce,  hid  the  view 
down  the  river,  the  canoe  suddenly  shot  ahead  like 
a  thoroughbred  breaking  from  the  barrier.  There 
was  the  trembling,  vibratory  motion  of  terrific 
speed,  the  water  racing  with  the  placid  velocity  of 
a  mill-race. 

And  the  men  sitting  in  that  frail  craft,  looking 
appealingly  at  the  abrupt-cut  banks  fifteen  feet 


FOOL'S  GOLD  29 

high,  realized  that  they  had  no  more  control  over 
their  flight  than  if  they  had  been  suddenly  dropped 
from  Mars.  Meekins,  who  had  been  sitting,  half 
asleep,  in  the  bow  of  the  canoe,  gently  slipped  a 
paddle  over  the  racing  craft's  side,  possessed  of  a 
fugitive  sense  of  protection  against  something  of 
disaster. 

Peloo's  great,  bony  hands  grasped  his  paddle 
with  a  similar  grip  of  defence;  the  sudden  thrusting 
of  him  and  those  who  were  in  his  hands  into  an  un- 
dreamed-of crisis  brought  to  his  forehead  the  dew 
of  apprehension.  "I  kind  of  don't  know  what's 
doin',  mister,"  he  drawled,  holding  his  voice  to 
a  slow  measure  of  placid  control,  "but  keep  cool, 
an'  don't  get  any  kind  of  a  move  on  till  I  say  'Go !' 
Me  an'  Red  could  'most  shoot  Niagara  with  a  good 
canoe  same's  this." 

St.  John  must  have  given  a  nervous  laugh,  for 
Peloo  was  saying  in  resentment:  "It's  a  joke  on 
us,  right  enough,  mister,  but  if  there's  a  jumpin'-off 
place  straight  ahead,  I  wouldn't  waste  no  breath 
laughin'  now." 

In  fact,  Peloo's  admonition  was  rendered  abor- 
tive by  fresh  complications;  there  was  neither  time 
to  laugh  nor  inclination  to  swear.  A  twist  of  the 
stream,  still  mad  racing,  and  from  its  waters  rose, 
like  the  dragon  teeth  of  Jason's  perplexity,  logs  and 
stumps  and  tree  roots.  Sometimes  a  timely  thrust 
of  the  paddle  by  Red's  strong  arm  and  they  missed, 
gliding  by  with  arrowlike  movement;  sometimes 
from  the  Peterborough  a  hoarse  moan  rose  as  its 


30  RED  MEEKINS 

side  squeezed  through  the  cushion  of  water  and 
rasped  a  trunk. 

St.  John  sat  in  the  stillness  with  which  men  wait 
for  unseen  death.  It  could  not  go  on,  this  escaping; 
the  odds  were  against  it;  the  fatal  loss  must  come. 
In  the  nervous  strain  he  found  relief  in  counting 
the  times  they  won  against  destruction;  one,  two, 
three — five  times  they  had  beaten  out  the  seemingly 
impossible.  No  one  spoke.  Even  the  waters  made 
little  noise.  It  was  like  a  river  running  at  high 
speed  through  the  holding  banks  of  a  brook;  that 
was  all.  Six!  The  huge  devil-fish  arms  of  a  pine 
stump,  hiding  behind  a  narrow  point,  had  just 
missed  the  flying  canoe;  one  long  tentacle  ripped 
St.  John's  side,  and  from  behind  came  the  sharp 
crash  of  splintered  wood.  Then  Peloo's  voice,  in- 
tense, collected:  "Slip  me  your  paddle,  Red;  mine's 
gone." 

St.  John  relayed  the  blade  as  Meekins  passed  it 
back.  Then  Red  lay  like  a  turtle,  his  chest  to  the 
gunwale,  his  great,  powerful  arms  stretched  one  on 
either  side.  Another  turn.  Beyond  was  the  quick 
glint  of  an  open  space,  as  though  a  film  of  green 
meadow  across  a  screen,  and  then — the  losing 
chance. 

A  voice  cried  out,  some  one's,  in  caution.  The 
canoe  rose  in  the  air  as  if  the  ghost  paddlers  of  the 
Loup  Garou  had  lifted  it;  there  was  the  clamouring 
cry  of  waters,  smashing  and  tearing,  lapping  up 
lives,  and  the  canoe,  its  prow  caught,  threw  a 
somersault. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  31 

St.  John  was  rolled  like  a  barrel.  If  he  could 
only  get  his  head  out  so  he  could  breathe !  Some- 
thing had  clutched  his  coat;  he  fought  against  it; 
it  was  dragging  him  resistlessly.  Now  he  was 
losing  his  strength,  ceasing  to  battle,  smothering.  A 
miracle!  His  head  was  clear  of  the  water;  the 
whiskered  face  of  a  huge  gorilla  was  peering  at  him 
from  a  mass  of  brushwood  upon  which  the  gorilla's 
arm  was  drawing  him. 

"I  just  managed  to  get  my  dooks  into  you  as  she 
keeled  over;  I  was  watchin'  you."  As  Peloo  talked 
he  hauled,  much  as  though  he  were  retrieving  a 
floating  bag  of  flour.  The  network  of  logs  and 
limbs  and  stumps  was  an  annex  to  the  river  bank, 
which  here  was  low;  it  was  a  jetty  along  which 
Peloo  salvaged  the  Englishman. 

With  his  feet  finding  the  assurance  of  undrunken 
earth,  St.  John  found  opportunity  to  wring  the 
water  from  his  hair,  and  voice  to  thank  Peloo. 

"I  couldn't  nohow  afford  to  let  you  get  away 
before  we'd  cast  up  accounts,"  Trout  said  deprecat- 
ingly.  "I  was  like  a  feller  that  got  a  medal  for 
jumpin'  off  a  dock  after  a  chap  that  owed  him  a 
hundred  dollars." 

"Where  is  Meekins?"  St.  John  asked.  "I  hope 
he  isn't  drowned." 

"When  a  man's  blocked  out  to  die  fightin'  booze 
he  ain't  goin'  to  get  put  out  by  the  baptism  route. 
Red'll  fetch  up  agen  a  log  or  somethin'  an'  crawl 
out — perhaps  with  a  fat  trout  in  each  hand.  Just 
as  I  was  sayin',  there  he  comes  now. 


32  RED  MEEKJNS 

"If  I'd  had  a  paddle  I  could've  spun  by  that 
dashed  root,"  Meekins  said,  feeling  some  apology 
due  for  the  mishap.  "When  I  first  climbed  out  of 
that  fool  creek  I  thought  my  arm  had  got  twisted 
off,  but  I  guess  it  ain't." 

Peloo  announced  solemnly :  "Now  we're  all  here, 
•and  next  meal'll  be  served  in  North  Bay. 

"We  ain't  got  a  bite  to  eat,"  Red  affirmed  dole- 
fully; "an'  our  closest  neighbours  is  'bout  where  I 
live  when  I'm  to  home.  Gad,  I'm  hungry  now! 
Let's  hike  down  this  fool  stream  an'  see  if  there's 
anythin'  left  of  the  canoe." 

A  hundred  yards  lower  down  they  came  to  an 
overhanging  shelf  where  the  water  took  a  mad  leap 
of  twenty  feet,  churning  itself  into  yeast  against 
worn  fragments  of  the  rock  in  a  caldron  below. 

St.  John  gave  an  involuntary  shudder.  "Most 
fortunate  we  parted  company  with  the  canoe  before 
this  drop,"  he  exclaimed  fervently. 

"Maybe.  There  might  be  worse  ahead,"  Peloo 
confirmed. 

Cast  high  on  a  rampart  by  a  thrust  of  the  waters 
lay  the  stern  half  of  their  canoe;  it  had  been  cut  in 
two.  Attached  to  one  of  the  thwarts,  where  Peloo 
had  tied  them,  were  the  bag  of  ore  samples  and  St. 
John's  leather  bag.  A  slab  of  bacon  was  wedged 
tight  between  two  bowlders  near  by. 

"Now  we'd  best  keep  on  an'  see  where  this  drunk 
creek  runs  to,"  Peloo  said  tentatively. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  guessin'  where  it  runs  to;  I 
know  where  it  runs  .from,  an'  that'll  do  me,"  Red 


FOOL'S  GOLD  33 

declared.  "When  Felix  finds  we've  gone  wrong 
he'll  back  up  to  where  we  switched." 

Peloo  and  Meekins  argued  the  matter.  Indeed 
there  was  much  to  be  said  for  and  against  either 
plan.  Following  the  stream  with  only  one  small 
piece  of  bacon  might  lead  them  far  astray  and  to 
starvation.  Red's  plan  was  the  safer.  It  was 
coming  on  toward  night,  it  would  be  difficult  travel- 
ling in  the  dark,  so  they  had  better  build  a  big  fire, 
dry  out,  have  some  hot  bacon,  a  sleep,  and  go  back 
up  the  stream  they  had  left.  Felix  was  on  that 
somewhere,  and  would  not  go  on  without  them. 
St.  John  cast  the  deciding  vote  for  this  arrange- 
ment. 

Both  men  carried  matches  rolled  up  in  an  oilskin, 
waterproof  bag,  so  that  fire  was  soon  started. 
Slices  of  bacon  were  toasted  on  forked  sticks  stuck 
in  the  ground.  A  wonderful  replenishment  of  vital 
force  was  produced  by  the  joint  agency  of  the  suc- 
culent browned  pork  and  the  marrow-warming  blaze 
of  crackling  birch  limbs. 

After  eating  came  the  mad  desire  for  a  smoke — 
mad  because  neither  Peloo  nor  Meekins  had  a  pipe; 
the  nefarious  stream  had  swiped  theirs. 

"Once  I  sold  a  mine  in  New  York,  an'  one  of 
the  gents  give  me  a  box  of  cigars  that  cost  a  quarter 
apiece.  They  was  big  an'  black,  an'  Lordl  they 
was  good  smokes " 

Peloo's  monologue  was  cut  short  by  a  groan  from 
Meekins.  His  exasperation  seemed  to  rise  higher, 
for  he  added:  "If  you  hadn't  steered  us  into  this 


34.  RED  MEEKINS 

gutter,  we'd  have  smokes  an'  everythin'  else  now." 

Their  condition  made  them  peevish,  and  a  fine 
wrangle  started.  In  the  midst  of  it  it  dawned  upon 
St.  John  that  the  lack  of  a  habitual  smoke  was  at 
the  bottom  of  all  their  ill  nature.  "By  Jove  I"  he 
exclaimed.  "I'm  deuced  stupid."  He  made  a  dive 
into  his  bag  and  brought  forth  a  briar  pipe  and  a 
bag  of  tobacco,  which  was  soon  dried  and  into  the 
bowl.  Marvellous  the  magnetic  touch  of  the  little 
soother.  Soon  the  filmy,  lace  clouds  of  smoke  dis- 
pelled the  acrid  atmosphere  of  intolerance  as  Peloo 
and  Red  alternated  in  possession. 

When  the  pipe  was  well  going  St.  John  said: 
"I've  a  bottle  of  Scotch  in  my  bag  that  I  carry  as 
medicine.  Do  you  gentlemen  ever  take  a  drop?" 

They  hesitated.  Peloo  was  afraid  to  speak  for 
fear  he  would  break  the  spell — would  wake  to  find 
he  had  dreamed  the  words  "bottle  of  Scotch." 
Meekins  was  simply  struck  dumb  by  the  magnitude 
of  their  good  fortune. 

St.  John  mistaking  the  motive  for  the  silence, 
broadened  the  invitation.  "I'm  wet,  and  I  know  it 
will  do  me  good.  You're  both  wet,  and,  by  Jove, 
under  those  circumstances  I  don't  think  a  drop 
would  hurt  any  man  I" 

St.  John  had  the  bottle  out,  and — well,  the  two 
old  villains  fell  from  grace.  They  drank,  Peloo 
rubbing  a  little  of  it  on  his  moustache  to  retain  the 
memory. 

"Now  if  you  could  only  bring  a  flock  of  blankets 
out  of  that  bag,  mister,  we  wouldn't  care  whether 


FOOL'S  GOLD  35 

school  kept  or  not,"  Peloo  commented  approvingly. 

Under  the  depressing  influence  of  wet  clothes,  no 
blankets,  the  rough,  uneven  ground  to  lie  upon,  the 
transition  of  cheeriness  wore  off.  Peloo  and 
Meekins,  inured  to  roughing  it,  slept  some,  but  St. 
John  hardly  closed  an  eye. 

Of  course  they  were  up  early  and  had  a  primitive 
breakfast  cooked.  As  they  ate,  St.  John  suddenly 
raised  his  hand  and  declared  that  he  heard  a  bell 
straight  down  the  stream. 

Peloo  looked  at  Meekins  and  winked.  "I  guess 
it  was  the  gong  on  a  street  car,  mister;  they  run 
over  there  about  a  hundred  miles  away,"  he  said. 

But  St.  John  was  in  earnest,  declaring  that  he  had 
heard  a  bell.  To  Meekins  the  whole  thing  was  so 
absurd  that  he  paid  no  attention  to  the  argument 
that  followed.  The  discussion  roused  Peloo's  com- 
bativeness.  He  turned  on  Meekins,  declaring  that 
mature  thought  convinced  him  they  ought  to  follow 
downstream  to  meet  Felix.  He  pointed  to  the  sun 
peeping  through  the  trees;  this  showed  them  that 
the  stream  ran  east  of  south,  while  the  stream  they 
had  left  had  a  trend  due  south.  This  would  bring 
the  two  together,  he  declared,  and  Felix  would  be 
waiting  at  the  forks.  "I  got  a  hunch  we  ought  to  go 
downstream,"  he  said. 

Meekins  turned  captiously  to  St.  John.  "When 
a  baby's  got  a  hunch  it  wants  a  feller's  watch,  there 
ain't  no  way  but  give  him  the  watch." 

"What's  a  hunch,  really?"  St.  John  asked. 

"It's  a  bellyache   in  your  brain,"   Meekins   ex- 


36  RED  MEEKINS 

plained.  Then  he  slung  the  bag  of  rock  samples  to 
his  shoulder,  and  stood  waiting,  his  face  down- 
stream. 

"Where  you  goin'  ?"  Peloo  asked. 

"There's  a  nice,  comfortable  hotel  down  here, 
an'  Felix's  in  the  bar  waitin'  for  us,"  Meekins 
sneered.  Then  he  started. 

"You  darned  old  grouch!"  Peloo  snarled,  fol- 
lowing, the  bacon  under  his  arm.  St.  John  carried 
the  leather  bag. 

For  a  hundred  yards  they  struggled  through 
thick  brush.  From  this  they  .suddenly  thrust  out 
upon  the  crest  of  a  granite  ridge,  devoid  of  trees,  its 
bald  crown  smooth  from  glacier  shave.  Below  was 
a  wide,  green  valley  that  held  in  its  lap  a  beautiful 
lake,  blue  as  turquoise.  Peloo  took  one  look,  then 
he  sat  down  and  asked  in  a  bewildered  manner: 
"Say,  do  you  fellers  see  a  city  there,  or  have  I 
got  'em?" 

The  others  admitted  that  they  saw  a  big  building 
with  white-chinked  crevices  between  its  logs  that 
looked  like  a  church.  Certainly  it  was,  for  there 
was  a  cross  above  its  roof.  There  were  a  dozen 
other  smaller  buildings,  some  of  them  gleaming 
white  in  the  sunlight,  and  on  the  little  lake  rested 
a  launch. 

"Holy  mackerel!  An'  we  lay  there  in  a  water 
trough  all  night!"  Peloo  groaned. 

St.  John  laughed.  "I'll  hardly  tell  this  story 
when  I  get  back  home,"  he  said. 

"Mister!"     Peloo's  voice  was  dramatic.     "You 


FOOL'S  GOLD  37 

asked  what  was  a  hunch.  That's  one  1"  and  he 
pointed  his  long  arm  toward  the  buildings. 

Then  they  went  on  to  the  Mission,  for  such  it 
proved  to  be.  They  were  warmly  welcomed  by  a 
delightful,  red-cheeked  priest,  Father  Perdue.  The 
little  priest  would  make  them  whole  again,  give 
them  a  log  shack  to  themselves,  feed  them,  and 
when  they  were  ready  to  go  give  them  a  canoe  and 
everything  required.  In  fact,  he  kept  a  store  sim- 
ilar to  a  Hudson's  Bay  post  in  which  they  could  buy 
anything  from  a  gun  to  a  shoe-lace. 

Of  course  Felix  would  know  they  had  drifted 
into  the  Devil's  Chute,  as  it  was  called,  and  would 
come  around  that  way  to  gather  up  their  bones,  and 
the  little  priest  laughed. 

And  later  on  Dubois  turned  up. 

During  the  day  Peloo  untied  the  bag  of  samples, 
saying  to  Meekins:  "We've  lost  that  danged  book. 
Let's  see  if  we  kind  of  got  the  hang  of  the  names  on 
these  pebbles."  He  emptied  the  contents  on  the 
table ;  then  he  gave  a  yell  of  dismay. 

"What's  hurtin'  you?"  Red  queried  from  the 
door,  where'he  was  filling  his  pipe. 

"Every  dang  label's  washed  off !" 

Meekins  crossed  over  to  the  table  and  looked 
disconsolately  at  the  rocks.  "This  all  comes  of 
your  crazy  schemes — the  chickens  is  come  home  to 
roost !  There  ain't  nothin'  in  goin'  crooked." 

Peloo  gathered  up  the  fluttering  labels,  consign- 
ing them  and  the  samples  back  to  the  bag.  "Don't 
be  a  quitter!"  he  growled.  "When  we  get  out  I'll 


38  RED  MEEKINS 

get  another  book,  an'  we  just  go  over  it  again."  He 
set  the  bag  against  the  wall,  saying  as  he  turned 
around:  "If  we  hadn't  lost  that  book " 

St.  John,  stepping  briskly  in  the  door,  heard 
Peloo's  lament.  uBy  Jove,  that's  so !"  He  darted 
out,  and,  while  the  two  men  still  held  their  breath, 
flipped  briskly  back  again,  the  missing  manual  in  his 
hand.  "Fancy  this  is  the  book  you  were  speaking 
of — found  it  in  my  bag  when  I  was  putting  the 
things  out  to  dry;  got  put  in  by  mistake  up  at  the 
mine,  I  fancy." 

Peloo  took  the  book,  and  with  eyes  full  of  ap- 
prehension gazed  solemnly  at  Meekins.  How 
much  of  the  choice  marginal  notes  had  the  English- 
man read? 

But  St.  John  gave  no  sign;  he  just  crept  a  little 
deeper  into  his  English  shell. 

CHAPTER  IV 

That  evening  they  had  dinner  with  Father  Per- 
due, and  Meekins,  lighting  his  pipe  at  the  big  fire- 
place, saw  a  piece  of  quartz  on  the  mantel.  He 
carried  it  to  the  lamp  to  read  its  caste. 

The  priest  turned  to  St.  John.  "M'sieu  is  look- 
ing at  the  father  of  sin — gold,"  he  said. 

"Even  the  Church  is  in  the  mining  game,"  St. 
John  laughed. 

"Not  yet,  m'sieu,"  and  Father  Perdue's  eyes 
twinkled.  "But  there  is  gold  where  that  came  from 
to  make  us  all  rich  and  benefit  the  Church,  too." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  39 

"We'll  form  a  syndicate,"  St.  John  declared, 
"and  give  you  a  quarter." 

"Not  me,  m'sieu.  But  the  Church  needs  money 
for  build  big  schoolhouse;  for  clothes  for  my  poor 
Indian  children;  for  books." 

"Where's  dat  gol',  mon  pere?"  Felix  questioned. 

"Ha-ha!"  That  priest's  round  face  threw  off 
waves  of  merriment.  "A  bird  in  the  hand  is  what 
you  call  no  good  if  he  get  away  to  the  bush." 

"But  you  could  direct  us- straight  to  it?"  St.  John 
queried. 

"Certainement" 

"What  do  you  say,  Dubois?"  St.  John  asked. 
"If  you'll  join  us,  and  hold  your  matter  over  till  we 
get  out,  I'll  finance  this  trip,  and  we'll  have  two 
mines  instead  of  one,  eh?" 

"I'll  go  me  if  don'  take  too  long  tarn." 

A  little  discussion  and  a  rough  agreement  was 
written  out  and  signed;  it  gave  the  Mission  one- 
quarter  interest,  the  others  dividing  the  three-quar- 
ters. 

"Now  the  cat  will  come  out  of  the  bag,"  Father 
Perdue  said.  Unlocking  a  wooden  cassette,  he  took 
from  it  a  paper  and  a  canvas  bag  from  which  he 
poured  on  the  table  a  dozen  nuggets  of  gold. 

"There,  my  friends,  is  the  cause  of  bloodshed." 
The  priest's  voice  thrilled  with  dramatic  tenseness; 
the  listeners  started.  "Let  me  tell  the  story,"  Father 
Perdue  added,  spreading  a  small  map  on  the  table. 
"Here  is  Moose  River" — he  placed  his  finger  on 


40  RED  MEEKINS 

the  map — "and  there  is  buried  the  poor  man  that 
found  this  gold." 

"Why  is  he  buried,  M'sleu  le  Cure?"  Felix  asked, 
and  Peloo  could  feel  the  breed's  hot  breath  on  his 
neck  as  he  leaned  forward,  his  black  bead  eyes  fas- 
tened on  the  priest's  finger. 

"For  very  good  reason,  son;  he  is  dead,  and 
Grasshead  have  buried  the  body." 

"Ah,  pere,  I  understan',"  Dubois  said  in  a  de- 
bonair tone;  "dis  man  have  die  on  de  trail." 

"He  was  murdered,  Felix,  Father  Perdue  an- 
swered sadly. 

"How  do  you  know,  mon  pere?  Have  you  seen 
him?  You  know  his  name?" 

"That  I  do  not  know,"  the  priest  answered.  "Per- 
haps a  wife  or  a  mother  waits,  and  he  will  come  no 
more." 

"Dat's  strange,  pere,"  Felix  protested.  "You 
don't  know  de  man,  but  you  know  he  was  keel — by 
companion,  you  say." 

Peloo  shook  the  breed's  arm  from  his  shoulder; 
it  had  tingled  him  as  though  charged  with  elec- 
tricity. 

The  priest  turned  to  St.  John:  "My  children, 
Grasshead  and  some  other  Indians  are  coming  over 
this  trail.  At  Moose  River  their  dogs  are  making 
great  fuss — hair  up,  bark  all  night.  They  are 
afraid;  they  think  it  is  evil  spirit,  for  Indian  is 
most  superstitious  creature.  But  in  the  morning 
Grasshead  follow  the  dog — of  course  he  follow 
le  bon  Dieu,  who  lead  him  to  the  dead  body,  but 


FOOL'S  GOLD  41 

'he  says  it  is  the  dog.  They  find  this  poor  man 
with  big  hole  in  his  forehead.  They  bury  him  and 
cut  the  cross  in  the  bark  of  a  tree;  that  is  his  head- 
stone." 

"Pardon,  Father  Perdue,"  St.  John  interrupted. 
"Did  Grasshead  describe  the  dead  man?  I'm — 
that  is — I'd  like  to  know." 

"The  Indian  says  it  is  white  man;  that  is  all  they 
tell." 

"He  shoot  himself,  mon  pere!"  Felix's  voice 
was  intense. 

"No;  it  is  big  hole  like  the  big  rifle  make,  and 
he  has  the  little  gun." 

"Grasshead  find  the  gun,"  Felix  sneered. 

"No,  the  murderer  he  have  stole  the  gun;  that 
also  why  it  is  not  accident.  But  they  find  with  these 
nuggets  these  small  bullets."  And  Father  Perdue 
placed  on  the  table  two  .33  shells. 

"De  man  steal  de  gun,  an'  he  don'  take  de  shells 
an'  de  nuggets!  Dat's  fine  story  Grasshead  tell!" 
Felix  scoffed. 

"You  see,"  Father  Perdue  proceeded  quietly, 
"Indian  is  like  this:  When  there  is  something 
wrong  he  look  all  about  on  the  back  trail  for  the 
story,  and  Grasshead  find  a  coat,  and  in  the  pockets 
are  the  shells  and  the  gold,  and  in  the  lining  is  this 
map." 

Peloo,  irritated  over  the  excited  condition  of 
Dubois,  said:  "If  Felix  is  quite  done  with  the  cross- 
examination,  let's  get  down  to  bus'ness  an'  look  at 
the  map." 


42  RED  MEEKINS 

"Very  good,"  Father  Perdue  said.  First  we  go 
in  canoe  from  here  by  Egg  Lake  and  Squaw  River 
and  Long  Lake  to  this  place,  Little  Moon  River." 
He  placed  the  point  of  his  chubby  finger  on  the  be- 
ginning of  the  trail  marked  on  the  map.  "That 
will  take  five  days.  I  will  send  Grasshead,  who 
will  show  you  most  excellent — he  knows  some  of 
the  trail.  Then  you  go  to  Loon  Lake  and  Moose 
River,  where  is  the  cross  on  the  tree,  and  from 
there  is  old  blazed  trail  to  Bitter  Water  Lake. 
That  is  this."  The  priest's  finger  had  followed  the 
inked  line  on  the  map.  "From  this,  you  see,  is  the 
little  stream  of  bitter  water  that  ends  at  this  egg- 
shaped  place  that  is  marked,  as  you  see,  'Gold 
Rock.'  " 

From  beneath  the  map  Father  Perdue  slipped  a 
sheet  of  ordinary  paper.  "This,"  he  explained, 
"was  also  in  that  coat." 

It  showed  Bitter  Lake,  the  stream,  the  oval  gold 
rock,  and,  in  addition,  a  square  opening  where  the 
stream  ran  from  the  oval. 

"That's  meant  for  a  cave,"  Peloo  said.  "I  guess 
the  feller  that  drew  the  first  map  didn't  know 
about  it." 

"An'  that's  where  'em  nuggets  come  from," 
Meekins  added.  "They  look  like  placer  stuff." 

"It  looks  very  reasonable  to  me,"  "St.  John  de- 
clared. "We'll  start  to-morrow,  eh,  Dubois?" 

The  breed  drew  back  from  the  table;  his  face 
showed  sickly  yellow  in  the  lamplight.  "Non!  I'm 
not  goin'  mak'  dat  fool  trip,"  he  declared  solemnly. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  43 

"What!"  St.  John  gasped,  and  Father  Perdue 
added  softly:  "That  is  not  very  honorable,  m'sieu." 

"Dat's  all  muskeg  country  up  dere;  dere's  no 
gol'." 

"Have  you  been  there  to  see,  Felix?"  Peloo  asked, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  snake  eyes  of  the  breed.  "From 
what  I  can  make  out,  an'  rememberin'  the  lay 
of  the  country  where  your  mine  is,  I  allow  they're 
in  the  same  general  direction. 

"I  ain't  been  dere,"  Felix  snarled;  "but  I'm  sick 
for  all  tam  chasin'  ghost  mine.  If  I  heard  dis 
story  firs',  I  don'  promise  go.  An  Injun  bring  de 
gol',  an'  got  fairy  story  'bout  some  man  is  keel. 
Plenty  tam  I  go  out  wit'  fell'  who  know  where  gol' 
mine  is,  so  plenty  as  never  was.  I  get  all  eat  up 
wit'  flies  in  summer,  an'  freeze  to  deat'  in  winter, 
an'  de  story  'bout  de  mines  is  lies.  I  got  one  good 
gol'  mine;  dat's  'nough  for  me.  An',  by  gar,  if  dat 
fell'  has  record  dat  claim,  how  you  goin'  get  heem?" 

Meekins  swung  in  his  chair  so  his  eyes  were  full 
on  the  breed's  face.  "Do  you  think,  Felix,  the  mur- 
derer'd  take  a  chance  on  the  hangman  like  that? 
He'll  wait  a  year  before  he  records  that  claim — wait 
till  the  murder's  all  blowed  over." 

"Gentlemen,"  St.  John  interposed,  "I  think  Du- 
bois  and  I  will  go  over  to  my  quarters  and  talk  this 
matter  over.  And,  Father  Perdue,  even  if  Dubois 
backs  out,  we'll  carry  the  thing  through." 

The  priest  folded  the  map.  "Put  this  in  your 
pocket,  then,  m'sieu,"  he  said. 

Dubois  and  St.  John  left  the  room. 


44  RED  MEEKINS 

When  they  entered  the  shack  St.  John  took  off 
his  coat.  This  action  seemed  to  have  a  fascinating 
interest  for  Dubois.  His  eyes  twitched  nervously 
when  St.  John  hung  it  on  a  nail  in  the  wall  near  the 
head  of  his  bed;  he  scanned  the  approach  to  it  from 
the  door. 

On  the  bunk  that  was  for  Peloo  and  Meekins 
there  were  no  pillows,  but  a  quick  glance  at  St. 
John's  showed  that  the  little  priest  had  provided 
this  luxury  for  the  city  man. 

Seating  himself  on  the  bed,  St.  John  asked:  "You 
won't  go  with  us,  Felix?" 

"No ;dat  fool  trip!" 

"Well,  then  you'll  have  to  extend  the  option  I 
hold  on  your  property  for  another  sixty  days." 

"You  buy  de  mine  now,  M'sieu  St.  John,"  Felix 
said  in  a  coaxing  voice.  "You  see,  he  is  a  good  wan 
— plenty  gol'.  I  wan'  go  back  to  my  little  farm  in 
Quebec;  I'm  tired,  me,  of  de  bush." 

"I  can't  buy  a  mine  without  a  report  by  an  engi- 
neer on  it;  it's  never  done.  I'm  not  sure  that  Mr. 
Meekins's  report  is  going  to  be  satisfactory."  St. 
John  was  thinking  of  the  mysterious  annotations 
in  the  mining  manual. 

It  was  just  at  this  period  that  Trout  and  Meekins 
came  within  earshot.  Peloo  threw  his  long  arm 
across  Red's  chest,  and  drew  him  out  of  the  shaft 
of  light  that  shot  through  the  open  door,  whisper- 
ing: "Here's  where  we  get  a  line  on  the  gent  from 
London;  it's  like  a  peep  at  the  other  feller's  hand 
in  a  game  of  poker." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  45 

"Is  M'sieu  Red  knock  de  mine?" 

Peloo  slipped  his  fingers  beneath  Red's  coat 
collar. 

"Meekins  is  practical" — Peloo  nudged  Red  in 
the  ribs — "and  honest,  and  when  I  get  to  Toronto 
I'll  have  a  technical  man  go  over  his  samples  and 
notes  with  him."  ("That  lets  me  out,"  whispered 
Red.)  "Therefore  the  sixty  days." 

The  breed  laughed:  "You  get  back  in  'bout  t'ree 
mont';  p'r'aps  never." 

"Get  shot,  like  that  poor  chap?" 

"Dat's  jus'  Injun  lies!"  Felix  retorted.  "Dat 
man  is  tenderfoot,  gets  los',  an'  starve  to  deat'. 
You  buy  de  mine  now." 

"No,  I  won't." 

There  was  something  so  unalterably  decisive  in 
the  Englishman's  voice  that  the  evil  mixture  of 
French  and  Indian  in  Dubois's  veins  ignited.  He 
sprang  to  his  feet,  beat  his  chest  with  clenched  fist, 
and  spat  out  in  anger:  "By  gar,  I  see  de  game! 
Red  Meekins — nom  du  chienf — is  knock  de  mine 
so  you  get  heem  cheap.  You  get  option  so.I  canno' 
sell  heem,  an'  Red'll  tell  ever-body  de  mine  is  no 
good." 

Dubois's  tones  were  drowned  by  turmoil  at  the 
door.  Large  animals  bellowed  in  rage;  two,  in 
close  alliance,  pitched  through  the  door,  wound  in 
each  other's  arms.  The  large  animal  on  top  wore 
the  gargoyle  face  of  Peloo.  Dubois's  infantile  rage 
died;  he  pushed  his  stool  to  a  corner  and  sat  down. 

St.  John's  "Gentlemen !"  seemed  irrelevant. 


46  RED  MEEKINS 

Peloo,  rising,  retained  a  grasp  on  Meekins's  shirt. 
"Red  kind  of  slipped  on  the  step;  he  ain't  used  to 
hard-wood  floors,"  he  explained. 

"I'm  seek,  me — I  got  bad  pain,"  said  Felix,  step- 
ping into  the  light. 

"A  little  whisky  will  put  that  right."  St.  John 
took  out  his  bottle,  and  was  thrusting  it  into  Felix's 
eager  hands  when  Peloo,  trembling  with  appre- 
hension, grasped  it,  saying:  "There's  a  cup  on  the 
table,  Felix;  bring  it  an'  I'll  give  you  a  stiff  horn." 

Peloo,  drawing  the  flowing  stream  as  fine  as  a 
straw,  at  the  first  hesitating  "Merci"  from  Felix, 
cut  off  supply.  He  corked  the  flask  and  thrust  it 
back  on  St.  John.  "We'd  best  nurse  that  for  ac- 
cidents." 

Meekins  groaned  as  the  flask  disappeared. 

"I  was  trying  to  arrange  with  Dubois  over  the 
mine,"  St.  John  said  casually. 

Felix,  deceived  by  the  demeanor  of  Peloo  and 
Red  into  a  belief  that  they  had  not  overheard  him, 
sat  down. 

"That  ought  to  be  as  easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log," 
Peloo  declared  cheerily.  "You've  come  grubbin' 
round  for  a  gold  farm,  and  Felix  has  stubbed  his 
toe  agin'  the  real  cheese.  Ain't  it  a  good  mine, 
Red?" 

"It's  the  makin'  of  a  good  mine,  I  think,"  the 
latter  answered  diplomatically,  "Of  course  it's  only 
a  prospect  yet." 

"She  ain't  pay  no  div'dends  yet,"  Felix  sneered. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  47 

"Dat's  right,  M'sieu  Red,  you  knock  de  mine;  dat 
mak'  you  good  engineer,  eh?" 

"Look  here,  breed!  If  you  pan  any  more  of  that 
dirt,  I'll  mop  the  floor  with  your  body." 

But  St.  John  interposed:  "Mr.  Meekins  speaks 
well  of  your  claim,  Dubois.  If  he  had  knocked  it, 
I  wouldn't  want  an  option.  It's  getting  late,  my 
dear  fellow,  and  I'll  tell  you  in  very  few  words  what 
I'll  do.  I'll  be  fair.  I  don't  want  you  to  wait  for 
nothing;  I'll  pay  you  one  thousand  dollars  for  the 
extra  sixty-day  option.  If  I  don't  take  the  mine,  the 
money  is  yours;  what?"  And  he  waited,  watching 
the  breed's  frowning  face. 

"How  I  know  de  bank  cash  de  check?"  Dubois 
asked  suspiciously. 

From  his  pocket  St.  John  drew  a  roll  of  bills. 
"You  see,  I  come  prepared,"  he  said,  laughing.  "I 
don't  expect  a  man  in  the  woods  to  take  my  word 
for  anything."  He  held  the  money  like  a  bait.  "If 
you  sign  an  option,  here  is  one  thousand  dollars, 
and  I  won't  buy  the  mine  now." 

"Ver'  well,  m'sieu.  Write  de  paper.  I'm  in 
hole;  I  got  to  take  it." 

When  Felix  had  signed  the  option  and  gone  down 
to  sleep  by  the  canoe  Peloo  said:  "Maybe  Mr. 
Meekins  won't  just  write  as  good  a  report,  losin' 
most  of  his  field  notes  in  that  dang  creek." 

"By  jove,  I  must  be  pretty  well  satisfied  with 
Meekins's  work  when  I  pay  two  hundred  quid  to 
still  hang  on;  what?" 

Red  held  out  his  hand.      "Shake,  mister;   that 


48  RED  MEEKINS 

mine's  a  good  one;  the  report  ain't  going  to  cut  no 
ice,   an  you  know  it.     I  like  a  man  when  I  meet 
h*m."     Red's  cheeks  were  hot;  he  turned  flounder- 
ingly  to  Trout:     "Ain't  that  right,  Peloo?" 
"Sure  thing,  Red,"  Trout  answered. 

CHAPTER  V 

To  Red  and  Peloo  retiring  was  a  simple  observ- 
ance. The  coat  was  removed  and  folded  for  a  pil- 
low, boots  were  taken  off,  the  trouser  waistband 
loosened,  and  the  ceremony  was  over. 

As  Peloo  rolled  his  ungainly  figure  to  the  back 
of  the  bunk  to  make  room  for  Meekins,  he  was 
chuckling.  Red,  still  moody  over  Dubois,  said 
querulously:  "Cry  yourself  to  sleep  pretty  quick." 

"Say,  Red,"  whispered  Peloo,  "why  does  English 
want  to  take  his  pants  off  just  'cause  he's  goin'  to 
bed?  I  wouldn't  give  'em  skeeters  such  a  chance 
at  my  legs." 

Red  eyed  the  eccentric  one.  His  gyrations — the 
putting  of  things  beneath  his  pillow,  the  arranging 
of  his  boots  against  the  wall,  the  indissoluble 
touches  of  city  life,  varied  by  numerous  swipes  at 
thighs  and  calves,  amused  Meekins.  Then  his  eyes 
falling  on  St.  John's  bag,  he  turned  on  his  back 
with  a  groan:  "Say,  Peloo,  why  didn't  you  think 
first  about  havin'  that  pain  in  the  belly?  Why'd 
you  let  Felix  beat  you  to  the  whisky?" 

In  an  agony  of  remorse  Peloo  flopped  over  with 
his  face  to  the  wall ;  only  presently  to  find  a  thumb 


FOOL'S  GOLD  49 

and  finger  twined  affectionately  in  his  whiskers  with 
a  tug  that  indicated  Red  wanted  him  to  roll  over. 
When  he  had  complied,  Meekins  whispered:  "He's 
writin'  home." 

True  enough,  St.  John  was  very  busy  indeed  with 
pencil  and  paper  beside  the  lamp. 

"If  you  see  him  do  anything  else,  keep  it  to  your- 
self," Peloo  rasped  as  he  turned  back  to  the  wall. 

But  St.  John  was  making  a  copy  of  the  map. 
When  he  had  finished  he  put  the  copy  in  his  bag, 
returned  the  original  to  the  pocket  of  his  coat,  hung 
the  coat  at  the  head  of  his  bed,  put  out  the  light, 
and  turned  in. 

Meekins  lay  running  the  gamut  of  the  day  past. 
It  was  Peloo  who  had  led  him  into  this  four-flushing 
game,  but  he  blamed  himself  for  it.  He  cursed 
Felix  for  a  bad  breed;  then  he  dropped  off,  thinking 
of  the  whisky  in  St.  John's  bag.  Something  woke 
him.  Instinctively  his  eyes  went  to  the  open  door; 
he  could  have  sworn  a  shadow  had  crossed  the 
moonlight  that  streamed  in.  "Huskie  dogs,"  he 
muttered  drowsily;  then  he  slept  again. 

Present  a  head  thrust  above  the  doorstep,  and 
for  five  minutes  its  owner  listened  to  the  deep 
breathing  of  the  sleepers.  Then  a  man  crept 
through  the  door  and  across  the  floor  on  all  fours 
to  the  head  of  St.  John's  bed.  There  he  rose  to 
his  feet,  and,  putting  a  hand  in  the  Englishman's 
coat  pocket,  drew  forth  the  map.  As  he  turned  to 
go,  his  foot  touched  the  black  bag  that  contained 


50  RED  MEEKINS 

the  essence  of  temptation  to  an  Indian.  He  stooped 
and  slipped  the  catch. 

There  was  seemingly  no  sound,  but  Red's  eyes 
flashed  open,  his  mind  as  alert  as  though  he  had 
been  called.  But  there  was  nothing  save  the  moon- 
light streaming  into  a  silent  room.  Meekins  spat  to 
relieve  the  tension.  There  was  a  slipping  noise  at 
the  head  of  St.  John's  bed;  in  the  shadow  of  the 
wall  something  moved.  With  no  impediment  of 
bedclothes  Red's  spring  was  clean  and  swi-ft;  his 
grapple  strong  and  sure. 

With  a  cry  St.  John  sat  up  and  struck  a  match 
to  the  lamp.  Peloo  stood  on  the  floor,  a  boot  in  his 
hand  as  a  weapon.  "Danged  if  it  ain't  Felix!" 
he  exclaimed  as  Meekins  rose  from  atop  the  pros- 
trate breed. 

"Extraordinary  caper!"  St.  John  growled  as  he 
slipped  into  his  pants.  "What  are  you  doing  here, 
Dubois?" 

Dubois  spat  a  red  froth  from  his  lips  that  lay 
bruised  against  his  teeth,  and  answered:  "I  been 
sick,  me;  I  got  pain  in  my  belly.  Mon  Dieu,  he 
cut  like  t'ousan'  knife !  I  come  here  for  ask  M'sieu 
St.  John  for  leetle  whisky,  an'  Red  he  grab  me 
on  my  back.  By  gar,  dat  not  fair!" 

"Why  didn't  you  call  when  you  come  to  the 
door?"  Red  asked  suspiciously. 

"I  don't  want  wake  ever'body,  jus'  m'sieu;  dat's 
why  I  don'  speak." 

"You  were  asking  for  a  little  whisky."  St.  John 
bent  over  his  bag  to  open  it,  only  to  straighten  up 


FOOL'S  GOLD  51 

at  once.  "By  Jove,  I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  really 
haven't  any  left  to  give  1" 

"Well,  can't  help  dat,  I  s'pose,"  Felix  said 
resignedly.  "I  go  try  get  sleep." 

"What  made  English  change  his  mind  'bout 
givin'  Felix  a  drink?"  Red  asked,  as  they  once  more 
straightened  away  for  sleep. 

"The  bag  was  open  when  he  went  to  get  the 
bottle." 

"Why  didn't  he  round  on  Felix;  he  must've  been 
tryin'  to  steal  it,  eh?  English's  a  pretty  good 
sport." 

"Yes,  he's  a  good  sport.  He  didn't  know  just 
at  once  whether  one  of  us  might' ve  slipped  over 
there  an'  hooked  a  snifter,  so  he  didn't  want  to 
say  anythin'  about  it." 

"That's  what  Felix  came  back  for,  eh,  to  steal 
the  whisky?"  Red  said  sleepily. 

"Yes;  Injun  blood'll  pour  itself  into  hell  any 
time  on  the  chance  of  mixin'  with  liquor." 

It  was  early  morning  when  Peloo  woke  Meekins. 
"If  you'll  cook  breakfast,  Red,  I'll  slip  down  an' 
ask  Mr.  Felix  to  peel  one  of  'em  hundred-dollar 
bills  off  his  roll  in  the  way  of  commission." 

When  Peloo  returned  he  looked  dolefully  at 
Meekins  and  croaked:  "Felix's  flitted  1" 

"What!"     Red  almost  dropped  the  fry  pan. 

"Yes.  Where  his  canoe  floated  there's  a  dent 
in  the  pond.  And  he's  left  Big  Little  Joe  an'  the 
other  nichie — I  just  see  'em  tearin'  along  on  the 
hunt  for  him." 


52  RED  MEEKINS 

Meekins  called  St.  John,  and  they  sat  around  the 
camp  fire  to  eat  breakfast  and  discuss  the  new 
vagary  of  Dubois. 

Presently  St.  John  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket, 
and,  missing  the  map,  stood  up  and  searched  every 
pocket.  "By  Jove!"  he  said.  "I've  lost  that  map; 
I  put  it  in  this  pocket  last  night." 

"Felix  rustled  it;  that's  what  he  was  up  to," 
Peloo  declared. 

"What'd  he  take  the  map  for  if  he  was  skinnin' 
out  for  home?"  Meekins  queried. 

"A  breed  is  like  a  wolverine — he's  so  used  to 
stealin'  when  he's  hungry  that  when  he  gets  fat 
he  keeps  it  up  just  for  fun.  He  come  to  guzzle 
that  whisky,  an'  rustled  the  map  just  out  of  deviltry. 
He  didn't  want  to  go  himself,  so  he  didn't  want 
us  to  go." 

"You  ain't  got  Felix  hefted  right  this  time, 
Peloo,"  Meekins  objected.  He's  got  a  big  start. 
Bein'  half  Injun,  he  can  travel  on  a  lean  belly,  an' 
he's  gone  on  to  stake  that  claim  He'll  slip  out 
an'  sell  it  on  the  samples  he  gets,  an'  we'll  never 
see  that  breed  again.  He'll  go  down  into  Quebec 
and  live  on  what  he  gets  out  of  those  two  mines." 

"Anyway,  we  ain't  got  the  map  now,  an'  can't 
find  the  mine.  We  got  to  just  put  our  heads 
under  our  arms  an'  go  home,"  Peloo  added. 

St.  John  jumped  up,  hurried  into  the  shack,  and 
returned,  waving  his  copy  of  the  map.  "You  see,  we 
always  keep  papers  of  value  in  duplicate  in  Eng- 
land/' he  explained. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  53 

"I  guess  you  saved  the  bacon,  mister,"  and  Peloo 
looked  at  Meekins,  amazement  in  his  eyes. 

Father  Perdue  raised  his  hands  in  pious  horror 
when  told  of  Dubois'  perfidy.  "I  will  give  you  the 
Watva;  she  is  good  yacht,  and  you  can  go  with 
her  beyond  Long  Lake,  'bout  three  day,  before  you 
got  to  get  into  canoe.  You  will  pass  the  dishones' 
Felix.  Also  I  will  send  Grasshead." 

No  time  was  to  be  lost.  Supplies — even  to  a  new 
rifle  from  the  Mission  store,  and  dynamite  and 
steel — were  gathered  on  the  run.  They  were  soon 
under  way,  towing  canoes  to  be  used  when  they 
abandoned  the  Wawa  in  shallow  water. 

Peloo  was  captain  and  engineer  of  the  little  craft 
that  sped  so  jauntily  over  the  water,  the  sun  mir- 
roring its  white  shell  in  broken  blotches  on  the 
turquoise  blue  of  the  lake. 

Through  Squaw  River  and  Egg  Lake,  and  then 
out  onto  the  lengthy  oval  of  Long  Lake,  they  sped. 
Meekins  sat  forward  beside  Grasshead,  and  the 
two  watched  almost  silently  for  signs.  In  the  north- 
land  night  comes  late  in  the  summer.  The  full 
glory  of  gold  was  glooming  in  the  west  when  Grass- 
head  pointed  a  hand  at  many  spots  of  flickering 
black  in  the  sky  ahead  of  them.  "Him!"  he  ejacu- 
lated. Red  understood.  The  wild  fowl,  ducks, 
and  loons  were  flying  erratically  with  swift  haste; 
they  had  been  disturbed  after  settling  down  for  the 
night. 

They  were  approaching  the  narrowed  part  of  the 


54  RED  MEEKINS 

lake;  a  passage  led  onward  as  far  as  they  could 
see. 

"Pull  her  to  the  right  bank,  Peloo!"  Red  com- 
manded. When  the  launch  touched,  Red  and 
Grasshead  sprang  out,  and  like  hounds  searched 
the  ground.  "Felix  is  ahead — not  far,"  Red 
advised  when  he  came  back.  "We'll  camp  here." 

After  supper  Red  put  into  words  the  thing  that 
was  bothering  him.  "Dang  if  I  can  make  out  why 
that  breed  isn't  further  ahead,  an'  just  now  he's 
tryin'  to  make  time,  too.  He's  takin'  his  canoe 
through  there  on  the  trackin'  line  an'  racin'  like  a 
bull  moose.  He  must've  waited  back  there  till  he 
was  sure  we  was  goin'  to  start." 

"If  he  wanted  to  get  the  mine,  an'  had  a  map, 
what'd  he  do  that  for?"  Peloo  asked. 

"He's  got  me  guessin';  some  hell'ry  on  we  ain't 
doped  out  yet," 


CHAPTER  VI 

They  were  away  early  in  the  morning,  the  swift 
current  through  the  channel  causing  them  to  make 
slow  progress.  It  was  three  hours  before  they 
emerged  into  the  lake  again.  Then  they  ate  up 
the  miles,  the  throbbing,  beating  little  cylinder 
usurping  all  the  toil  for  that  day. 

"Felix  ain'  got  a  chance,"  Peloo  was  saying,  as 
he  headed  the  Wawa  for  a  cheery  little  bit  of  sand 
beach  that  nestled  beneath  the  spruce  and  pines. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  55 

"We'll  camp  here,  an'  our  run  to-morrow  will  be 
ha-ha  to  the  Wawa"  • 

He  swung  the  boat  sharp  across  to  the  right, 
and  the  next  instant,  with  a  rasping  groan,  the  little 
Wawa  shoved  her  nose  up  in  the  air  and  stopped. 

"By  Jove  1"  St.  John  cried.    "What's  happened  ?" 

"Struck  a  rock,"  Peloo  answered.  "I'll  soon  get 
her  off."  He  reversed  the  engine;  the  blades 
churned  with  avidity,  but  the  Wawa  settled  down 
in  her  nest. 

Meekins,  as  boatswain,  took  soundings.  With  a 
pole  he  prodded  the  water  starboard  and  port. 
"This  seems  to  be  the  big  toe  of  the  foot,"  and 
he  pointed  to  a  shelving,  turtle-backed  granite  point 
just  beyond. 

"Shove  her  off!"  Peloo  commanded. 

Meekins  and  Grasshead  put  their  weight  to  the 
pole,  but  the  Wawa  might  have  been  asleep  for  all 
the  movement  this  created.  "She  seems  to've  run 
her  belly  right  up  on  the  rock,"  Red  declared. 
"What  we'd  best  do  is  slip  over  the  side  an'  boost 
her."  Even  as  he  spoke  Meekins  was  shedding 
his  clothes.  "Might's  well  keep  my  pants  dry  as 
sleep  in  'em  wet  on  the  sand." 

"You  an'  Grasshead  drop  overboard  an'  shoulder 
her  off  while  I  push  with  the  pole,"  Peloo  advised. 

Meekins  and  Grasshead  slip£ed  to  the  sunken 
rock,  the  water  being  waist-deep.  Grasshead  put 
his  shoulder  to  the  port  side,  Meekins  to  the  star- 
board. 

Peloo  adjusted  the  cedar  pole  between  the  two 


56  RED  MEEKINS 

men.  "When  I  give  the  word  you  fellers  push 
with  all  our  might.  Make  ready!"  he  trumpeted. 
"Yo  heave !" 

If  the  Wawa  had  stood  on  greased  ways  and 
somebody  had  knocked  the  holding  key  block  out, 
she  could  not  have  departed  with  more  celerity. 

Peloo,  his  legs  yanked  from  beneath,  with  a  wild 
yell  pitched  parabolically,  in  his  descent  carrying 
Meekins  with  him.  Grasshead,  startled,  stood 
helpless.  The  reversed  screw  carried  the  Wawa 
out  into  the  lake,  the  pop-pop  of  the  exhaust  sound- 
ing like  the  echo  of  a  mocking  laugh. 

From  the  stern  of  the  launch  St.  John  was  yell- 
ing: "I  say,  what  do  I  do  to  stop  this  devilish 
thing  from  running  away?" 

"Turn  over  the  engine,"  Peloo  bellowed  in 
answer. 

The  Englishman  knew  nothing  of  mechanics. 
He  looked  helplessly  at  the  chugging  engine.  At 
the  first  attempt  to  interfere  he  nearly  lost  the 
fingers  of  a  hand.  Then  he  tried  the  steering 
wheel,  and  the  Wawa  spun  around,  crashing  into 
the  canoe.  He  whirled  the  wheel  back,  and  the 
excited  boat  snapped  the  line  holding  the  Peter- 
boroughs,  and  they  drifted  languidly  away.  St. 
John  sat  down;  he  saw  the  three  marooned  men 
line  upon  the  sands,  Peloo's  grotesque  shape,  com- 
bined with  the  bare  shanks  of  the  others,  suggest- 
ing Crusoe  and  twin  Fridays. 

Peloo  was  growling:    "We   ain't  got  no  grub, 


FOOL'S  GOLD  57 

Red,  an'  if  English  monkeys  with  that  engine  he'll 
sink  the  boat." 

"I  got  to  go  an'  sit  in  the  water — danged  if  I 
can  stand  the  black  flies!  An'  to-night  me  an' 
Grasshead'll  have  to  sleep  in  the  lake  'cause  of  the 
skeeters,"  Red  lamented. 

Peloo's  matches  were  dry  in  their  oilskin  wrap- 
per, and  he  soon  had  a  fire  going.  As  the  thick 
smoke  ascended  Red  came  out  of  the  water  and 
stood  in  the  protection  of  its  cloud. 

"Heap  big  fool,  him!"  And  Grasshead  swung 
his  arm  in  a  wave  of  disgust  toward  the  Englishman 
in  his  erratic  castle. 

"Well,  you  don't  talk  none  too  much  as  a  rule, 
nichie,  so  we'll  forgive  you  this  time.  Person'lly 
there  may  be  something  in  what  you  say,"  Peloo 
commented. 

Out  on  the  lake,  St.  John  was  thinking.  If  he 
could  but  start  the  propeller  ahead,  he  might  get 
the  Wawa  to  shore.  Night  was  coming  on.  He 
grasped  the  starting  lever  and  threw  it  over  with 
such  force  that  he  all  but  wrecked  the  clutch.  To 
his  delight  the  shocked  Wawa  sprang  forward  with 
a  startled  gasp,  by  chance  heading  straight  for  a 
big  rock. 

Peloo  ran  down  the  strip  of  sand,  yelling:  "Stop 
her!  Throw  over  the  lever!" 

St.  John  grabbed  the  lever  and  yanked  it  back. 
This  time  there  was  no  doubt  about  what  happened 
to  the  clutch.  The  cogs  in  the  reverse  gear  were 
snipped  off  like  peas  flipping  from  a  bursting  pod. 


58  RED  MEEKINS 

Though  the  engine  churned  away  merrily,  the  screw 
ceased  to  revolve.  Of  its  momentum  the  launch 
continued,  but  something  had  given  it  a  tangented 
swing.  It  just  shaved  the  rock,  and  once  more 
headed  out  into  the  lake,  where  it  stopped. 

Naturally  St.  John  threw  the  lever  forward, 
nicely  clipping  the  remaining  cogs.  The  engine 
sped  on,  though  the  screw  sulked.  This  puzzled 
him.  His  eyes  wandered  over  the  network  of  pipes, 
levers,  and  wires  till  it  fell  upon  an  iron  standard, 
topped  by  a  half  disk  which  carried  an  index  finger. 
He  had  seen  Peloo  shift  this  finger  when  the  boat 
was  not  running  satisfactorily.  It  was  the  spark, 
and  the  last  thing  St.  John  should  have  touched. 
He  didn't  shift  it  far — two  or  three  inches — but 
to  advance  the  spark  the  full  limit  was  like  shoving 
a  man  off  a  cliff.  The  prematurely  exploded  com- 
pressed gas  hit  an  honest-toiling  piston  on  top  of 
the  head  with  a  jolt  that  left  it  dead  in  the  lap  of 
the  cylinder.  At  the  gunlike  roar  of  the  back  fire 
St.  John  sprang  back  so  nimbly  that  he  landed  flat 
on  his  back.  "Fancy  I've  made  a  bally  mess  of 
you,  my  incomprehensible  friend,"  he  apologized  to 
the  now  silent  engine. 

The  echo  of  the  explosion  reached  the  shore.  "I 
guess  that'll  be  'bout  all  from  'em  engines  to-day," 
said  Peloo.  "We'll  wait  to  see  if  she  sinks,  an' 
then  turn  in  for  the  night.  You  best  throw  a  heap 
of  sand  up  over  your  legs,  Red." 

It  was  some  night,  as  Meekins  confided  to  the 
horizon  in  the  morning.  Pelo_0j  blest  with  trousers, 


FOOL'S  GOLD  59 

slept  like  a  just  man.  Meekins  hung  his  bare  legs 
over  a  log  in  the  smoke  of  the  fire,  but  sometimes 
sparks  nestled  in  the  thick  underbrush  of  red  hair, 
and  sometimes  when  the  smoke  shifted  with  the 
wind  a  horde  of  hungry  mosquitoes  sought  his 
blood.  At  intervals  St.  John  called  to  assure  them 
that  he  was  still  in  port. 

At  daybreak  Meekins  and  Grasshead  found  one 
of  the  canoes  and  towed  the  Wawa  to  shore.  "This 
is  another  of  'em  stories  there  ain't  none  of  us 
goin'  to  tell  back  home,"  said  Peloo  as  St.  John 
warmed  his  back  at  the  fire. 

Then  followed  three  days  of  canoe  drudgery; 
paddling  in  good  water,  Peloo  and  Red's  powerful 
strokes  sending  the  Peterborough  along.  On  the 
stream  Red  and  Grasshead  swung  to  the  leather 
collar  of  the  tracking  line,  plunging  through  mud 
and  water  like  spaniels  mile  after  mile. 

And  all  the  time  Red  was  searching  for  signs  of 
Felix.  Once  bubbles  floated  on  the  lazy  surface  of 
a  reach  of  still  water,  and  Red,  calling  back 
"Marsh!"  to  Grasshead,  surged  into  the  collar. 
They  were  rounding  a  bend,  and  his  sudden  tight- 
ening of  the  line  lifted  the  Indian  off  the  narrow 
bank  and  dropped  him  in  ten  feet  of  water.  They 
had  to  salvage  Grasshead,  and  by  the  time  they 
reached  the  point  there  was  no  sign  of  Felix.  Once 
they  were  so  close  that  the  Indian's  nose  picked 
from  the  breeze  a  scent  of  tobacco. 

On  the  third  evening  they  made  camp  at  Little 
Moon  River.  From  there  the  trail  led  across  coun- 


60  RED  MEEKINS 

try  to  Bitter  Water  Lake,  as  shown  on  the  map. 
There  was  practically  no  trail;  it  would  be  difficult 
to  keep  in  the  right  way,  even  with  Grasshead's 
guidance. 

They  hid  their  canoe  in  some  willows,  and  early 
in  the  morning  took  up  the  gold  trail.  St.  John 
insisted  on  carrying  a  pack,  so  was  given  some 
blankets  with  the  dynamite  inside.  Grasshead  said 
that  they  had  better  eat  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  they 
could  make  the  next  meal  at  Pipestone  Falls,  where 
was  good  water.  In  fact,  the  trail  swung  to  the 
north  to  tap  the  water  there. 

As  they  approached  Pipestone,  Grasshead,  in 
the  lead,  held  up  his  hand  for  the  others  to  stop; 
then  he  slipped  his  pack  and  stole  through  the 
bush.  Presently  he  returned  to  explain  that  he  had 
seen  a  Peterborough  canoe  on  the  edge  of  the  big 
pool  below  the  falls,  and,  this  being  an  unusual 
craft  among  Indians,  had  feared  it  might  be  some 
evil  medicine  of  Felix's.  "Injun  got  him !"  he  said. 
The  Indian  was  a  Cree,  his  name  Squabo.  He  was 
catching  fish  in  the  pool  and  drying  them  in  the  sun 
for  winter  use.  He  was  alone  save  for  a  huge, 
gaunt  dog  that  well  bore  the  name  of  One  Wolf. 

Like  the  Peterborough,  the  dog  was  an  unusual 
exhibit  for  an  Indian  to  possess.  His  large,  big- 
boned  frame,  black-haired  save  for  the  white  face, 
suggested  a  civilized  breed;  the  standing  ears,  the 
wide,  curved  forehead,  and  the  curious  guttural 
howl  that  was  his  effort  to  bark,  denoted  a  mixture 


FOOL'S  GOLD  61 

of  huskie  and  wolf.  He  was,  as  St.  John  said,  a 
most  villainous-looking  dog. 

"He  ain't  got  nothin'  on  his  boss  in  bad  looks," 
Peloo  had  added. 

Grasshead  and  Squabo  smoked  the  speech-loos- 
ening pipe  together  after  the  Cree  had  gorged 
upon  the  white  man's  food. 

"Bad  Injun?"  Peloo  queried  when  Grasshead 
rejoined  the  group. 

The  Indian  thrust  his  right  hand,  with  the  palm 
flattened,  beneath  his  left;  then  he  darted  the  two 
first  fingers  of  a  hand  forward  like  the  thrust  of  a 
fork,  and  grunted:  "Camouse.  Him  name  Muskwa ; 
Squabo  lie  name." 

"Grasshead  says,"  Red  interpreted,  "that  Squabo 
is  underhanded,  has  the  tongue  of  a  snake — a  liar 
— and  is  a  thief.  'Camouse'  means  squaw  stealer." 

"Delectable  character,"  St.  John  commented. 

"He  stole  that  canoe;  sure;  he  wouldn't  get 
money  enough  in  a  thousand  years  to  buy  one,  and 
if  he  did  get  it  he'd  buy  fire  water,"  Red  declared. 

But  in  spite  of  his  moral  obliquity,  Grasshead 
advised  that  they  hire  Squabo  to  show  them  the 
trail  to  Bitter  Lake.  It  would  save  time,  as  the 
Cree  would  take  them  straight  across  country  to  it.. 

At  first  Squabo  refused  to  go;  he  wanted  to  fish. 
Even  the  ten  dollars  that  St.  John  agreed  to  give 
failed  as  a  bait.  It  was  only  when  Peloo  began 
to  ask  how  he  had  come  by  a  Peterborough  that 
Squabo,  frightened,  began  to  weaken.  He  agreed 
to  go,  demanding  the  money  in  advance. 


62  RED  MEEKINS 

They  had  travelled  half  a  mile  when  the  fiendish, 
howling  bark  of  One  Wolf  came  hurtling  through 
the  air  from  the  late  camp,  where  he  had  remained 
to  clean  up  the  scraps.  Soon  the  gaunt  dog  moved 
swiftly  into  view.  He  did  not  check  his  travel  till 
he  reached  Squabo;  then  he  turned,  and,  hair  erect, 
bared  his  fangs  and  hurled  a  guttural  curse  back 
over  the  trail. 

Peloo  looked  at  Meekins  and  asked:  "What 
d'you  make  of  that?" 

"Felix,"  Meekins  answered  laconically. 

"What's  he  hangin'  on  our  'trail  for?  Why 
don't  he  push  on  an'  stake?" 

"Why  is  a  breed?"  Meekins  snarled.  "I  never 
could  guess  one  of  'em.  Anyway,  that  pup'll  be 
a  good  watchman.  Let's  move  on." 

That  evening  they  came  to  Loon  Lake.  As 
Meekins  shifted  his  shoulders  from  the  straps  of 
his  pack  he  said:  "Here's  where  that  poor  feller 
camped,  accordin'  to  the  map ;  hope  his  ghost  don't 
bother  none." 

Gradually,  as  they  had  traversed  the  trail,  words 
of  the  dead  man  had  crept  into  their  speech.  The 
tragedy  of  his  hunt  for  the  gold  they  were  after 
cast  its  spell  over  their  spirits. 

"After  I've  had  a  smoke  I'll  build  a  shack," 
Peloo  commented,  sitting  down  to  fill  his  pipe. 
Grasshead  was  building  a  fire  to  cook  the  evening 
meal. 

"What's  Meekins  looking  for?"  St.  John  asked, 


FOOL'S  GOLD  63 

nodding  toward  the  latter,  who  was  prowling  rest- 
lessly about  the  old  camping  place. 

"He's  just  lookin'  for  things.  I  ain't  never  struck 
an  old  camp  yet  that  somebody  ain't  left  somethin' 
behind — gener'lly  a  knife." 

"Devilish  odd  idea;  what?" 

Peloo  sucked  at  his  pipe,  then  said  solemnly: 
"If  I'd  saved  all  the  truck  I'd  found  in  camps,  I'd 
have  enough  to  outfit  a  museum.  Once  I  found  a 
glass  eye — that  was  at  Athabasca  Landin' ;  it 
must've  rolled  off  into  the  grass  in  the  night  when 
its  owner  had  a  nightmare  or  somethin'." 

"Perhaps  Meekins  will  find  a  set  of  false  teeth 
there,"  St.  John  said  insinuatingly,  as  Peloo  stirred 
up  his  pipe. 

"Red's  a  great  reader,"  Trout  declared,  ignoring 
this. 

"Books  on  geology  chiefly,  I  suppose,"  St.  John 
commented. 

Peloo  looked  at  the  speaker  through  a  cloud  of 
smoke.  "In  a  profess'onal  way  generally;  but  he's 
mostly  stuck  on  detective  stories.  I  guess  he's  now 
tryin'  to  read  the  story  of  that  feller  an'  his  killer." 
Peloo  puffed  his  pipe,  then  he  continued:  "In  a 
city  Red  wouldn't  dare  take  a  walk  without  a  guide. 
He  couldn't  ketch  nothin'  there  'cept  a  stiff  dose  of 
booze,  but  here  in  the  bush  the  trees'll  tell  him 
stories;  they  open  up  their  hearts  an'  talk  to  him. 
You've  seen  a*  dog  runnin'  all  over  the  place,  chasin' 
up  his  master's  trail?  Well,  it's  pretty  near  like 
that  with  Red.  In  the  bush  or  in  the  mine  he  seems 


64  RED  MEEKINS 

to  know  what's  beyond  where  your  eyes  an'  mine'd 
stop.  But  I  guess  I'd  better  get  a  house  built  for 
the  night." 

He  cut  a  pole  ten  feet  long,  and  adjusted  it 
between  the  forked  limbs  of  two  trees;  then  he  put 
three  poles  like  rafters  against  this  and  threw  a 
tarpaulin  over  the  poles,  making  a  comfortable 
lean-to. 

St.  John  was  frightfully  tired.  The  pack  had 
stiffened  his  neck,  and  there  was  sand  or  ground 
glass  beneath  his  shoulder  blades.  The  pork  fry- 
ing in  the  pan  ravished  his  senses;  he  ate  of  it 
ravenously. 

When  they  had  changed  from  supper  to  the 
smokes,  St.  John  asked:  "Did  you  discover  any- 
thing, Meekins?" 

"Well,  I  figger  that  dead  man  found  the  killer 
here.  I  guess  he  come  from  Little  Moon  with  an 
Injun  an'  hooked  up  with  the  Killer,  who'd  been 
here  'bout  a  month.  Yon's  where  he  bunked,"  and 
Meekins  pointed  to  a  flat  bundle  of  red  spruce 
boughs.  "He  was  an  old-timer,  Injun  or  breed, 
'cause  he  wove  'em  spruce  fingers  like  a  wire  mat- 
tress. They  was  cut  'bout  last  May." 

"You  mean  the  Killer?"  Peloo  queried. 

Meekins  nodded.  "He  had  a  canoe;  I  see  the 
marks  in  the  clay  bank  there  in  the  lake.  They 
sent  the  Injun  back  in  'bout  two  days,  then  they 
built  a  cache;  there  it  is,"  and  Red  pointed  to  a 
platform  about  ten  feet  high.  "On  that  they  cached 


FOOL'S  GOLD  65 

some  of  the  feller's  grub  for  when  they  was  comin' 
out  again." 

"How  do  you  know  they  sent  the  Indian  back  in 
two  days?  Pardon  me,  but  it's  devilish  interest- 
ing." 

"I'll  show  you,  mister,"  Meekins  said  patiently, 
and  he  carried  St,  John  to  where  much  chopping  had 
been  done.  "The  Injun  that  come  had  a  narrow- 
bladed  Hudson's  Bay  ax  with  a  couple  of  nicks  in 
it;  I  see  his  marks  as  we  come  over  the  trail.  Look; 
there's  some  of  his  choppin';  it's  like  a  beaver 
chawed  the  sticks  off,  an'  there's  'bout  enough  of 
that  kind  of  choppin'  to  make  fire  for  two  days. 
An'  there  ain't  none  of  it  showin'  on  'em  poles  in 
the  cache;  they  built  that  after  he'd  gone,  'cause 
if  he'd  been  here  the  other  feller'd  do  no  choppin'. 

"Now  look  at  this" — Red  patted  the  tapered  end 
of  a  birch  log  a  foot  in  diameter — "there  ain't  a 
nick,  there  ain't  a  false  stroke;  that's  what  I  call 
choppin'.  I  don't  know  but  one  man  in  these  parts 
that  can  swing  an  ax  like  that.  Did  you  ever  see 
choppin'  like  that  before,  Peloo?"  There  was  a 
suggestion  of  something  in  Red's  tone. 

"I  kind  of 'think  I  did  once,"  Trout  answered. 

"That  was  done  with  an  American  ax — it's  got 
a  wide  blade,"  Meekins  continued;  "an'  the  same 
feller  had  been  swingin'  that  ax  here  for  'bout  a 
month  off  an'  on." 

"Perhaps  the  Killer  built  the  cache  before  they 
come,"  Peloo  suggested. 

"He  didn't  need  no  cache,  'cause  he  was  livin' 


66  RED  MEEKINS 

on  rabbits  an'  muskrats.  I  see  the  fur  all  about. 
An'  it  was  built  after  the  Injun  had  done  his  old- 
woman  choppin',  'cause  the  brush  of  the  tree  the 
poles  was  cut  from  is  all  on  top  the  poplars  the 
Injun  cut  down." 

As  they  sat  down  by  the  fire  Meekins  took  from 
his  pocket  a  handful  of  cartridge  shells.  "The 
Killer  that  was  camped  here  had  a  .45-95  rifle; 
there's  a  lot  of  empty  shells  about.  I  guess  these 
.33  shells  belonged  -to  the  dead  man.  Likely  he 
had  one  of  'em  high-velocity  guns.  An'  these  shells 
tells  pretty  near  how  he  got  killed;  it  was  a  clean 
case  of  murder." 

"Wonderful,  if  you  can  prove  it,"  St.  John  com- 
mented. 

"You'll  see  that  two  of  these  shells  has  got  the 
bullets  still  in  'em;  the  other  one  had,  too,  before 
I  pulled  it.  I  was  kind  of  curious  to  know  why  it 
hadn't  gone  off,  'cause  a  mark  showed  the  hammer 
had  bust  the  cap." 

"Bad  cap?"  Peloo  queried. 

"No;  there  wasn't  no  powder  in  the  cartridge." 
With  his  knife  Meekins  pried  the  bullet  from 
another  shell;  it,  too,  held  no  powder. 

"What  does  that  mean,  exactly?"  St.  John  asked. 

"That  the  Killer  meant  to  murder  him,  an'  when 
the  other  feller  wasn't  lookin'  fixed  the  ammu- 
nition." 

"But  he  didn't  kill  him  here,"  Peloo  objected. 

"He  killed  him  at  Moose  River,  after  they'd  left 
the  mine.  But  the  priest  said  he'd  stole  the  gun, 


FOOL'S  GOLD  67 

an'  he's  emptied  the  shells  out  here  when  he  come 
to  his  canoe;  see?" 

"Marvellous!"  St.  John  exclaimed. 

"Well,  mister,  it's  only  kind  of  a  guess,  you  see," 
Red  said  modestly. 

St.  John  rose,  and,  turning  his  back  to  the  fire, 
said:  "I  can't  get  my  breeches  dry — they're  wet 
with  perspiration." 

"Excuse  me,  mister,  but  that  looks  like  grease, 
same's  if  you'd  sat  in  the  fry  pan,"  Peloo  offered. 
He  passed  his  hand  over  the  seat  of  St.  John's 
breeks,  then  he  jumped  up  and  examined  the 
Englishman's  pack.  "That's  dynamite  in  the  seat 
of  your  pants!"  he  declared  emphatically.  "The 
heat  of  the  sun  an'  your  body  made  'em  sticks 


run." 


"I'm  afraid  you're  pulling  my  leg,  Trout."  St. 
John's  eyes  were  full  of  suspicion. 

"Pullin'  nothin' !  There  was  only  a  thin  blanket 
between  'em  candles  an'  your  body,  an'  the  heat 
melted  the  nitroglycerin  away  from  the  burned  clay 
that  holds  it;  that's  all.  You  got  all  the  explosive, 
though." 

Peloo's  earnest  manner  convinced  St.  John,  and 
he  edged  gingerly  away  from  the  fire,  expostulating : 
"A  rum  go,  I  must  say !  I  can't  throw  away  my 
breeches;  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"You'll  just  have  to  lead  an  orderly  life,  mister; 
there  ain't  nothin'  else  to  it.  Don't  sit  down  too 
suddent,  an'  if  you're  goin'  to  fall,  fall  on  your 
face.  Don't  slap  the  skeeters  too  hard  on  your 


68  RED  MEEKINS 

hips,  an'  don't  strike  no  matches  on  your  pants." 

"Mister,  if  you  listen  to  that  boob  you'll  be 
afeared  to  breathe.  I  never  see  a  man  in  my  life 
was  so  fond  of  the  groan  stuff.  Dynamite  is  just 
one  of  the  sweetest-behaved  things;  I'll  show  you." 
Red  took  a  stick  of  the  explosive  from  St.  John's 
pack,  broke  off  a  piece,  and,  lighting  it,  held  it  as 
it  burned  like  a  candle.  St.  John  was  frozen  with 
horror. 

"Red  likes  to  show  off,"-Peloo  advised  St.  John. 
"We  wasn't  talkin'  'bout  you  goin'  to  light  your 
pants,  an',  as  I  said,  as  long  as  you're  smooth  an' 
easy  with  the  stuff  it'll  behave.  But  if  you  was  to 
strike  a  match  on  your  pants,  I'd  figger  it  was  just 
like  ticklin'  a  mule  in  the  heel  with  your  nose." 

Peloo's  voice  was  drowned  by  a  bellow  from  One 
Wolf.  Just  beyond  the  firelight  he  stood,  watching 
something  that  moved  still  farther  out  in  the  gloom. 
The  figure  of  a  man  appeared.  It  was  Squabo; 
they  had  not  noticed  him  going  into  the  woods. 

Peloo  touched  Meekins  on  the  arm.  "A  dog 
don't  howl  at  his  boss,"  he  said. 

The  black  dog,  his  bristles  ridged  along  his 
spine,  stood  with  bared  fangs,  snarling  at  something 
just  beyond  the  arc  of  light. 

"Marsh!"  Squabo  cried,  throwing  a  stick  as  he 
passed.  But  One  Wolf  charged  a  couple  of  yards, 
his  feet  tearing  up  the  dead  leaves,  and  then  backed 
up  again. 

"What's  the  matter  with  your  pup?"  Peloo 
asked. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  69 

"Don't  know;  see  him  bear  pYaps."  And 
Squabo  took  his  blanket  and  curled  up  just  beyond 
the  fire. 

St.  John  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  and 
passing  to  the  lean-to,  lay  down. 

By  the  dancing  flames  that  threw  flashes  of  pur- 
ple light  across  the  yellow-ochre  mask  of  Scjuabo's 
face,  Peloo  could  see  that  the  Indian  furtively 
watched  for  something  in  the  black  void  of  the 
silent,  mysterious  pine  forest.  Suddenly  at  his 
elbow  Grasshead  whispered,  "Him,  bad  Injun!" 
Peloo  was  startled.  He  had  not  spoken,  yet 
Grasshead  read  his  thoughts.  "What  was  One 
Wolf  afeared  of?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know." 

"Of  course  you  don't  know,"  Peloo  retorted; 
"but  you're  lyin'  just  the  same,  for  you  think  you 
do.  Was  it  Felix?" 

"Mebbe." 

"Was  it  a  ghost — the  spirit  of  him  you  buried?" 

"Mebbe,  too." 

"Or  was  it  just  an  or'inary  pig-eyed  bear  lookin' 
for  somethin'  to  eat?" 

"Plenty  bear  now  'cause  huckleberries  ripe — 
mabbe  bear." 

"Well,  Grasshead,  you've  got  the  northern  lights 
skinned  a  thousand  ways  for  variety." 

The  Indian  did  not  keep  pace  with  Peloo's  illu- 
sive innuendo.  He  blinked  the  eyes  that  were  much 
like  glass  agates,  with  their  yellow-red  glaze,  and 
took  a  few  puffs  at  his  pipe.  Then  he  said: 


70  RED  MEEKINS 

"Squabo  'fraid  for  go  near  the  Devil  Mine.  Him 
think  you  try  find  dat  bad-medicine  gol'." 

"How  does  he  know  we're  huntin'  gold;  we 
ain't  told  him?" 

"I  don't  know  me;  I  go  sleep.1'  Grasshead  took 
his  gray  blanket  and  curled  up  near  Squabo. 

"Both  of  'em  playin'  possum,"  Peloo  muttered. 
"What  d'you  make  of  it,  Red.  What's  gettin'  us, 
anyway?" 

"I  don't  know,"  Meekins  answered. 

"Now  just  say  three  times  'Maybe,  maybe, 
maybe,'  same's  Grasshead  did,  then  I'll  go  an'  wake 
English  up,  an'  me  an'  him'll  sit  an'  talk  'bout 
London." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  Peloo,  that  I'm  duckin', 
but  I  ain't.  I  don't  know  what  the  devil's  comin' 
to  this  neck  of  the  woods.  D'you  think  I  ain't 
heard  things  an'  felt  'em?  They  was  close,  too." 

"How  close?"  Peloo  asked,  and  his  shaggy  face 
was  thrust  almost  into  Red's. 

"Sometimes  I  could' ve  throwed  an  ax  an'  hit 
somethin'  if  1  could've  seen  it.  There's  somethin' 
peepin'  over  my  shoulder  all  the  time." 

"An'  mine,  too,"  Peloo  interposed. 

"An'  Grasshead's,"  Meekins  continued.  "Eng- 
lish don't  find  it — much.  I  guess  it's  'cause  he's  of 
the  city;  he  don't  seem  to  hear  nothin'  in  the  woods. 
It's  kind  of  like  a  dif  rent  language  to  him.  When 
'em  partridges  was  whistlin'  there  to-day  in  that 
little  hollow  where  the  black  currants  grow  beside 
the  creek,  he  walked  right  in  among  'em,  and  when 


FOOL'S  GOLD  71 

they  went  off  whir-r-r,  whir-r-r!  I  guess  he  thought 
he  was  shot." 

"No,  I  guess  he's  more  used  to  hearin'  an  alarm 
clock  'bout  noon  than  anythin'.  I  tried  to  get  him 
set  on  to  that  bull  moose  as  we  come  up  the  creek. 
The  bull  was  gruntin'  like  a  pig,  'Whee-a,  whee-a !' 
but  St.  John  couldn't  hear  it." 

"Therefore,"  Red  said  slowly,  "he's  kind  of  like 
a  babe  pullin'  a  pup's  tail;  he  can't  read  no  signs  an' 
he  ain't  worryin'  none." 

Almost  imperceptibly  both  men  gave  a  twitching 
start.  Something  in  the  gloom  of  the  tamaracks  had 
splashed  the  water;  perhaps  a  night  fowl,  a  loon, 
or  perhaps  a  raccoon  fingering  the  ooze  for  a  frog. 

Peloo,  turning  his  back  to  the  fire  so  that  the 
shadow  of  the  forest  with  its  hidden  things  lay 
before  his  eyes,  said  casually:  "Back  at  Sturgeon 
Creek  I  see  a  man's  fresh  trail." 

"I  saw  it — Felix's.  Don't  say  nothin'  to  English 
'bout  it." 

"Yes,  if  he  gets  cold  feet,  he'll  want  to  turn 
back.  I'm  goin'  to  foller  this  trail  if  it  leads  to 
China.  Gold  mines  ain't  found  every  day,  an'  I'm 
'bout  tired  of  buckin'  the  bush.  I'm  gettin'  old, 
Red." 

"English  won't  get  no  cold  feet;  'tain't  that. 
But  if  he  gets  askin'  questions — I  can  stand  the  flies, 
an'  I  can  stand  goin'  without  grub,  but  when  he 
gets  busy  wantin'  to  know  things,  that  finishes  me." 

"What's  Felix  hangin'  on  our  trail  for?  What's 
the  fool  idee,  Red?" 


72  RED  MEEKINS 

"Felix  thinks  'cause  he  stole  that  map  that  all 
we've  got  to  lead  us  to  that  gold  mine  is  Grasshead. 
He'll  try  to  get  the  Injun  away  from  us  so  we'll 
have  to  turn  back.  He's  afeared  that  even  if  he  got 
to  the  mine  first,  we'd  make  a  fight  for  it." 

"An'  we  got  to  take  good  care  of  Grasshead's 
health;  that  crook  would  shove  a  knife  into  him  if 
he  got  the  chance.  Let's  turn  in,  Red." 

As  the  two  men  crossed  to  their  blankets,  Grass- 
head  rose,  saying:  "Me  no  sleep — big  heap  talk." 

Peloo  laughed,  and,  handing  a  plug  of  tobacco 
to  the  Indian,  said:  "Well,  smoke,  you  dang  old 
crank!" 

Meekins  put  the  stock  of  his  rifle  against  the 
folded  coat  pillow,  muttering:  "I'll  make  a  sieve 
of  anythin'  as  wakes  me  up." 

Perhaps  the  night  air,  vibrant  with  mental  static, 
flashed  this  boast  broadcast.  He  had  drawn  off 
but  one  of  his  long-legged  boots  when  the  forest 
echoed  the  blood  call  of  hungry  wolves.  Like  a 
knife  the  first  three  sharp,  cutting  notes  had  come ; 
then,  caught  up  and  answered  from  all  sides,  the 
din  was  demoniac. 

"Howl,  darn  you!"  Meekins  swore  in  exaspera- 
tion. The  next  instant  he  exclaimed  more  piously, 
"Oh,  Lord!"  for  St.  John  was  standing  by  the  fire, 
asking:  "What's  the  bally  din  about,  Meekins?" 

Red,  irritable  as  a  sleepy  child,  answered:  "The 
wolves  is  spoofin'  us." 

St.  John  caught  on  that  somebody  was  being 
spoofed.  "Ah,  really!"  he  commented  icily. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  73 

Peloo,  who  had  crossed  back  to  the  fire,  touching 
St.  John  on  the  elbow,  said  apologetically:  'Red's 
got  one  of  his  bad  spells  to-night." 

"Dear  me!    What's  the  nature  of  his  illness?" 

"Oh,  he  gets  'em  in  the  neck,"  Peloo  answered 
evasively:  " 'Tain't  lockjaw;  it's  packer's  lump." 

"Never  heard  of  it." 

"Well,  Red's  got  two  big  lumps  on  the  back  of 
his  neck;  they  come  from  packin'  heavy  things  like 
stoves  an'  pianers  that  rubs  against  the  muscles. 
An'  to-night  they're  kind  of  sore.  Guess  I'll  turn 
in,"  he  added  abruptly,  as  he  saw  Red's  hand  reach 
for  a  stick  of  wood. 

"Wait  a  moment!  If  he's  in  pain,  a  little 

whisky "  St.  John  made  a  dive  for  his  black 

bag.  At  the  magic  word  Meekins  sat  up  with  a 
hand  on  the  back  of  his  neck;  he  gave  a  groan. 

St.  John  thrust  his  hand  into  the  bag,  only  to  pull 
it  out  and  stand  scratching  his  nose.  Red's  heart 
sank  with  foreboding.  Peloo  moistened  dry  lips 
as  he  hung  on  the  Englishman's  movements. 

St.  John  put  the  bag  down.  "Devilish  stupid  of 
me,"  he  explained;  "but  I  remember  now.  I  had 
a  swig  the  night  I  was  out  in  the  launch;  must  have 
left  the  bottle  under  the  seat — too  bad!" 

"What  do  you  know  'bout  that  for  settin'  in  bad 
luck?"  Meekins  groaned  as  Peloo  turned  in. 

"I  read  in  a  almanac  that  this  was  to  be  a  year 
of  disaster,  but  I  didn't  know  it  was  hittin'  at  us  in 
pertic'lar,  Red." 

Grasshead  watched  the  two  white  men  settled 


74  RED  MEEKINS 

to  sleep;  then  he  turned  to  the  trail  of  thought  he 
had  been  following.  Undoubtedly  Squabo  was  up 
to  some  evil.  Whatever  it  was,  Squabo  would 
probably  wait  until  he,  sitting  there,  tired,  fell 
asleep.  Even  now  the  Cree  was  watching  him  from 
a  slit  in  his  eyes. 

A  plan  occurred  to  Grasshead — an  Indian  plan. 
He  called  softly  to  the  Cree:  "Ho,  boy — boy! 
Ho,  boy !"  If  the  Cree  had  been  asleep  he  would 
have  wakened  quicker.  "Smoke,"  Grasshead  said, 
when  at  last  Squabo's  eyes  were  wide  in  questioning. 
"Come,  boy!" 

He  held  Peloo's  brown  plug  of  tobacco  in  the 
dim  light  of  the  little  fire,  and,  drawn  by  the  load- 
stone, Squabo  came  and  sat  beside  the  schemer. 
When  he  had  filled  his  pipe  Grasshead  said:  "Sit- 
ting here  I  sleep.  I  am  tired." 

"Lie  down,  brother,"  the  Cree  advised.  "Sleep, 
even  as  the  white  men." 

"Are  you  not  afraid?"  Grasshead  asked. 

"Of  what?" 

"That  is  why  I  am  afraid,"  Grasshead  answered; 
"because  I,  too,  ask  of  what?  But,  brother,  you 
are  brave.  If  you  watch,  I  will  sleep.  Keep  the 
tobacco;  from  now  till  the  time  of  work  is  four 
smokes." 

Grasshead,  as  he  lay  down,  turned  his  back  to  the 
fire,  and  the  Cree,  seeing  this,  said  to  himself: 
"This  horse-stealing  thief  of  an  Ojibwa  really 
means  to  sleep;  it  is  not  a  trap." 

He  sat  by  the  fire  and  watched  it  grow  to  a  dull 


FOOL'S  GOLD  75 

mound  of  sullen  coals.  He  pulled  a  handful  of 
moss  from  a  rotten  log  and  dropped  it  on  the  fire; 
the  firelight  was  gone,  and  the  slow-lifting  smoke 
from  the  smoldering  moss  thickened  the  curtain 
of  night  that  hid  him,  even  in  the  soft  moonlight, 
as  he  slipped  to  where  his  few  belongings  lay. 

Grasshead  must  have  dozed  for  a  minute,  for  he 
did  not  see  the  other's  going.  It  was  as  mysteriously 
silent  as  though  the  shadows  of  the  forest  had  crept 
a  little  closer  and  embraced  the  Cree.  One  Wolf, 
his  slobbered  jaws  turned  toward  the  forest,  now 
rose  from  his  haunches  and  followed. 

The  Ojibwa  stirred,  and  with  a  grunt  opened  his 
eyes,  turning  them  toward  the  fire.  Then  he  looked 
for  Squabo's  blanket;  it  was  gone.  He  lay  for  a 
minute,  thinking;  then  he  rose,  and,  throwing  a 
strip  of  birch  bark  on  the  fire,  by  its  light  stooped 
and  touched  Meekins  on  the  arm.  "Ho,  Ogama!" 
he  said  softly. 

When  Red  opened  his  eyes  sleepily,  Grasshead 
explained  that  Squabo  had  deserted,  and  he  wanted 
the  rifle  to  bring  him  back. 

From  beneath  his  shaggy  brows  Meekins  eyed 
the  Indian  furtively.  Grasshead  read  the  suspicion, 
and,  passing  the  palm  of  his  right  hand  quickly 
across  the  back  of  his  left,  made  testimony  that  he 
would  act  aboveboard,  and  not  underhand. 

Meekins  pumped  the  magazine  of  his  rifle  empty, 
then  shoved  one  cartridge  into  the  barrel.  As  he 
did  so  Grasshead  held  up  two  fingers,  but  Meekins, 
shaking  his  head,  passed  the  weapon  to  the  Indian, 


76  RED  MEEKINS 

who,  with  head  hanging  forward  from  the  stooped 
shoulders,  slipped  to  the  trail  that  Squabo  had 
taken. 

Wider  awake,  misgiving  took  possession  of 
Meekins.  He  sat  up.  This  wakened  Peloo. 

"Who  turned  on  that  gas?"  he  growled.  "Talk 
'bout  the  snake  room  in  any  booze  joint;  this's  got 
'em  all  skinned  for  no  rest.  Hello!  Where's 
Grasshead — and  Squabo?"  he  added  in  astonish- 
ment. 

When  Meekins  explained,  Peloo  commented: 
"All  I  can  say  is  that  Grasshead  bein'  our  one  best 
bet  in  this  gold-mine  hunt  you  more  or  less  throwed 
away  our  chances." 

"What's  botherin'  me,"  Red  declared,  "is  the 
idee  that  I  may  never  see  that  gun  again.  Grass- 
head  an'  that  other  Injun  may  be  puttin'  up  a  job 
on  us.  They're  headin'  for  the  canoe,  an'  I'm  goin' 
to  string  with  'em.  You'd  best  watch  that  nobody 
kidnaps  English." 

CHAPTER  VII 

Meekins,  holding  the  moon  over  his  right 
shoulder,  struck  out  with  the  swift  certainty  of  a 
woodsman.  Almost  subconsciously  he  ran  a  mental 
diagram  of  the  course  Squabo  and  the  man  who 
trailed  him  would  take.  Half  a  mile  would  take 
them  to  the  first  big  bend  in  Red  Sucker  Creek,  then 
they  would  hug  the  south  bank  till  they  came  to  the 
Pipestone  Falls. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  77 

Soon  the  ripple  of  water  running  over  a  stony 
bed  told  Meekins  that  he  was  rounding  the  big  bend. 
Now  the  trail  crossed  stretches  of  sand  dotted  here 
and  there  with  jack  pine. 

"I  must  be  catchin'  'em,"  he  muttered  as  he  rose 
out  of  a  hollow  into  a  long  sweep  of  sandy  ridge. 
"Must  be  catchin'  'em  if  they  ain't  got  wings." 

Now  he  was  in  a  clump  of  jack  pine,  their  stunted, 
blackened  arms  throwing  grotesque  shadows  upon 
the  sand.  Under  the  shaggy  brows  the  blue  eyes 
of  Meekins  were  peering  ahead  through  the  tan- 
gled network  of  light  and  shade.  Suddenly  he 
stopped.  A  shadow  had  crossed  a  patch  of  moon- 
light. It  was  like  a  reflection  traversing  a  mirror. 
Yes,  it  had  not  been  fancy,  for  now  a  huge,  horned 
owl,  startled  by  the  something  ahead,  swept  by. 

Meekins  circled  to  the  left  and  pushed  forward, 
watching  where  he  placed  his  feet.  Indeed,  the 
yielding  sand,  with  its  thin  covering  of  turf,  was 
like  a  heavy  rug.  Suddenly  he  checked  and  slipped 
behind  a  tree.  Twenty  yards  ahead  something 
holding  life  moved;  it  must  be  Grasshead.  But 
Meekins  was  puzzled.  Why  did  the  Indian  make 
such  slow  progress?  If  he  had  caught  sight  of 
Squabo,  why  did  he  not  push  on,  close  in  on  the 
Cree?  A  memory  of  the  look  in  Grasshead's  eyes 
as  he  begged  for  more  than  one  cartridge  came  to 
Meekins.  Was  the  Ojibwa  stalking  his  prey, 
striving  for  a  shot  in  the  open? 

As  he  pondered  this  matter  Red  travelled.  Now 
and  then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  one  that  was 


78  RED  MEEKINS 

making  about  the  same  progress.  Meekins  was 
unarmed;  therefore  caution  must  govern  his  move- 
ments. It  might  not  be  Grasshead,  and  the  way 
things  were  going  even  Grasshead  might  do  any- 
thing. Red  knew  that  he  was  gradually  working 
closer  to  the  one  in  front,  but  it  was  a  tantalising 
pursuit — losing  the  thing  he  pursued  in  the  heavy 
shadows  and  catching  glimpses  of  it  in  the  patches 
of  light.  After  a  quick  traverse  of  a  sloping  hill 
he  suddenly  came  to  a  halt.  Not  five  paces  away 
a  figure  leaned  against  a  poplar,  the  shoulder  show- 
ing from  either  side  against  a  moonlight  space 
beyond. 

The  figure  by  the  tree  suddenly  straightened;  the 
hands  were  in  movement.  There  was  a  quick  gleam 
of  glinting  light  where  a  moonbeam,  thrown  through 
the  foliage,  had  caught  the  steel  barrel  of  a  gun. 

Like  a  sprinter  shooting  out  from  his  crouch, 
Meekins  threw  himself  at  the  man  whose  head  was 
dropped  to  the  stock  of  his  gun.  As  his  out- 
stretched hand  reached  an  arm  there  was  a  spitting 
flash  of  fire,  the  crash  of  an  explosion,  and  together 
the  two  went  down.  To  Red  they  fell  a  thousand 
feet.  Something  had  struck  him  almost  fair  be- 
tween the  eyes ;  the  heavens  were  ablaze  with  fervid 
lights;  his  brain  reeled.  He  fought  grimly,  slipping, 
slipping  now  almost  over  the  edge  of  unconscious- 
ness, now  gasping  his  way  back,  and  always  clinched 
with  a  devil  that  fought  for  the  grip  of  his  throat. 
A.  hot  breath  choked  him;  a  face  pressed  close  to 


FOOL'S  GOLD  79 

his,  sought  to  savage  him.  Now  they  were  up 
again. 

Locked  in  each  other's  arms,  neck  to  neck,  Red's 
hand  found  a  powerful  leverage  in  a  grasp  of  the 
other's  cartridge  belt.  He  could  feel  his  enemy 
slowly  crumpling  under  his  bearlike  hug.  But  his 
brain,  clouded  by  that  first  smashing  blow  between 
the  eyes  that  must  have  been  from  the  kick  of  the 
rifle,  worked  with  half-drunken  slowness.  Suddenly 
the  belt  came  away  in  his  grasp,  and  he  went  back- 
ward, clutching  at  the  empty  air.  The  hard  impact 
brightened  him;  he  was  up,  but  his  antagonist  had 
gone. 

As  Meekins  plunged  across  the  open  ridge  a  man 
stood  out  in  the  moonlight  and  called  to  him  to  stop. 
With  a  curse  on  his  lips  he  broke  into  a  run.  There 
was  a  flash,  the  crack  of  a  rifle;  he  could  hear  the 
singing  ping-g-g!  of  the  leaden  missive.  He 
checked  for  an  instant  to  balance  his  mode  of  attack. 
As  he  turned  his  face  in  the  moonlight  Grasshead 
called:  "Ho,  M'sieu  Red — it  is  Grasshead!  Don't 
fight!" 

Meekins,  mystified,  suspicious,  kept  on  guard 
while  the  Indian  talked.  He  explained  that  as  he 
had  trailed  Squabo  he  had  thought  himself  fol- 
lowed, and  had  doubled  back  on  his  own  trail  to 
entrap  the  unseen  one.  But  whoever  it  was,  he  was 
a  devil  of  the  woods.  Not  once  had  Grasshead  seen 
anything  more  than  a  quick,  blurring  shadow. 
Then  had  come  the  crack  of  a  rifle  and  the  dull  thud 
of  a  bullet  as  it  buried  its  leaden  nose  in  a  tree 


80  RED  MEEKINS 

trunk  just  as  he  had  slipped  behind  it.  Then  Grass- 
head,  having  but  the  one  cartridge,  had  waited  for 
the  oncoming  of  his  hidden  enemy;  that  was  all. 

Meekins  looked  at  the  cartridge  belt  he  still 
unconsciously  held  in  his  hand.  "It  was  Felix  I 
had  the  grapple  with,"  he  declared.  "These 
shells're  .45 's;  they'll  fit  that  gun.  Guess  I've  pretty 
near  cleaned  him  out  of  ammunition,  anyway." 

He  slipped  some  cartridges  into  the  rifle,  saying: 
"Well,  march!  Now  we've  started  let's  get  that 
Cree,  or  see  what  they're  up  to." 

Then  they  passed  through  the  forest  with  eager 
swing.  Clouds  scudded  across  the  sky,  driven  by 
the  rising  wind  that  sighed  and  wailed.  At  times 
came  the  shriek  of  an  angry  gust  through  the  lean, 
cutting  boughs  of  the  pines.  Once  Meekins  threw 
up  his  hand  and  paused  in  his  stride.  A  note  caught 
his  ear;  it  was  unlike  any  noise  of  the  clamouring 
trees. 

"One  Wolf!"  Grasshead  said. 

When  the  droning  song  of  Pipestone  Falls  told 
them  they  were  close  the  two  men  cut  to  the  left, 
coming  out  on  the  stream  a  hundred  yards  below. 
They  stood  behind  a  curtain  of  wild  raspberry  and 
listened,  peering  out  upon  the  dark  waters.  From 
downstream  a  grating  noise  like  the  rasp  of  a  paddle 
against  a  canoe  came  to  their  ears. 

When  they  came  to  the  pool  below  the  silver 
sheet  of  falling  water  all  was  still  except  the  boom- 
ing roar.  The  canoe  was  gone;  there  was  the  little 
trough  out  in  the  mud  where  it  had  been  shoved 


FOOL'S  GOLD  81 

from  the  bank.  Meekins  struck  a  match,  and, 
crouching,  held  it  over  the  footprints  of  the  man 
who  had  taken  the  canoe. 

Taking  a  match  from  Red's  hand,  Grasshead, 
holding  it  in  the  cup  of  his  palms,  rapidly  searched 
the  mud  bank.  "Not  Injun,"  he  declared;  "that 
One  Wolf  not  go." 

With  startling  confirmation  at  that  instant  the 
wolfish  snarl  of  Squabo's  dog  went  up  from  a  spot 
ten  yards  deeper  in  the  woods.  As  they  stood  silent 
they  could  hear  the  dog  whining.  But  there  was 
no  word  from  his  master,  no  movement  in  the 
woods. 

Then  Meekins  and  Grasshead  separated  and 
drew  an  ever-narrowing  circle  about  the  spot  where 
One  Wolf  hovered.  At  last  they  came  to  Sqiiabo 
lying  dead,  a  red-splashed  vent  in  his  breast,  and 
his  face,  greenish  yellow  with  the  death  pallor, 
turned  up  to  the  overhead  moon. 

"Why  did  Felix  stick  a  knife  in  him?"  Meekins 
asked. 

"Don'  know,  me.    That  breed  bad  medicine." 

They  covered  Squabo  with  stones  and  left  him 
to  the  lonely  vigil  of  One  Wolf,  who  sat  on  his 
haunches,  looking  stupidly  at  the  curious  tepee  that 
now  held  his  master.  As  they  trailed  back  to  camp, 
their  spirits  heavy  with  the  gruesome  night's  work, 
the  mournful  howl  of  the  dog  came  to  their  ears 
at  fitful  intervals. 

"I'm  glad  that  beast  didn't  follow  us;  he  gives 
me  the  jimjams,"  Red  said. 


82  RED  MEEKINS 

As  Meekins  was  slipping  beneath  his  blankets 
the  shaggy  head  of  Peloo  rolled  over,  and  a  bead 
eye  peered  at  him  inquisitively. 

There  had  been  no  noise  over  the  coming  of 
Meekins,  but  it  woke  St.  John.  He  sat  up  and 
looked  about;  then  he  rose,  and,  filling  his  pipe, 
sat  on  a  log,  warming  his  hands  over  the  red  embers 
that  were  left  of  the  fire. 

Soon  a  pallor,  cold  and  gray,  crept  into  the  sky 
on  the  eastern  side  of  Loon  Lake,  and  far  up  its 
shore  a  whistling  of  roused  waterfowl  came  inter- 
mittently. Rising  higher  into  the  pale-green  sky, 
a  harrow-shaped  wedge  of  geese  threw  back  to 
earth  their  bell-like  "Honk-honk-honk!" 

St.  John  watched  the  curious  panorama  of  the 
night  fleeing  backward  into  the  forest.like  something 
of  life  slipping  away  from  the  betraying  light  of 
approaching  day.  An  unseen  brush  swept  gold  leaf 
across  the  pallid  sky;  then  long,  livid  tongues  of 
vermilion  red  cut  the  gold.  Above  a  faint  rose  tint 
deepened  to  crimson  and  bronze,  and  higher  still 
in  the  vaulted  dome,  blue,  ineffably  sweet,  appeared. 
Then  ascending  shafts  of  stronger  light  radiating 
from  the  sun  gave  warmth  and  palpitating  life  to 
the  sky. 

Enchanted,  the  city  dweller  hung  expectant  on  the 
glorious  phenomena  of  the  breaking  day,  the  call  to 
life.  His  pipe  grew  cold  in  his  tense  fingers.  A 
rim  of  molten  fire,  at  first  vermilion,  came  slowly 
upward  from  beyond  the  lake,  its  warm  light  tipping 
the  tiny  wavelets  until  the  surface  of  the  waters 


FOOL'S  GOLD  83 

was  like  a  field  of  cloth  of  gold  jewelled  with 
rubies  and  sapphire  and  amethyst. 

With  unconscious  tribute  to  the  majesty  of  dawn, 
St.  John  took  off  his  hat,  muttering:  "Glorious!" 

But  his  dream  mood  was  at  once  shattered  by  the 
prosaic  lament  of  Peloo  at  his  elbow:  "I  ain't  slept 
a  wink.  Talk  'bout  back  to  the  soil  for  a  quiet  life ! 
Dang  it,  there  ain't  no  such  thing  on  the  trail! 
'Em  two  Injuns  an'  Red  had  nightmare,  an'  an  ant 
crept  into  my  ear  to  hide  from  somethin'." 

"Where's  Squabo  now — I  haven't  seen  him  this 
morning?"  St.  John  asked. 

"Me  an'  Red  couldn't  stand  that  dang  dog,  so  we 
told  him  to  light  out.  We  don't  need  him,  anyway." 

Then,  while  it  was  still  in  his  mind,  Peloo  crossed 
to  where  Meekins  was  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  said: 
"I  just  spoofed  English  'bout  Squabo.  There  ain't 
no  use  worryin'  him  'bout  things  on  the  side." 

"I  should  'a'  shot  that  dog,"  Red  muttered. 
"I  hate  to  think  anythin'  's  goin'  to  starve."  He 
pulled  on  a  boot  and  added:  "You  best  pack  that 
dynamite  in  some  moss  for  English;  keep  a  few 
sticks  out  for  my  pack — there  ain't  no  use  havin' 
all  our  eggs  in  one  basket." 

As  Peloo  stood  up  he  pointed  to  a  white-faced 
head  that  projected  from  the  rim  of  spruce  brush, 
as  its  owner  carefully  visualised  his  probable  recep- 
tion, and  remarked:  "There's  that  desolate  pup 
you  was  worryin'  'bout,  Red.  He's  lookin'  for  you." 

As  they  ate  breakfast  Meekins  studied  the  map. 
"This  says  eight  hours  northeast  of  Loon  Lake  is 


84  RED  MEEKIXS 

an  old  Hudson's  Bay  Company  blazed  trail.  This 
trail  is  four  hours  to  the  crossin'  at  Moose  River. 
If  nothing'  happens,  we'll  camp  at  the  crossin'  to- 
night." 

St.  John  made  a  mental  calculation.  "About  three 
miles  an  hour — thirty-six  miles.  Quite  a  jaunt,  eh, 
what?" 

"We're  headin'  into  a  muskeg  country  with  the 
trail  overboard;  we'll  be  goin'  some  to  make  one 
mile  an  hour,"  Peloo  said  grouchily. 

When  they  had  finished  the  meal  Red  called 
sharply  to  Grasshead:  "Put  a  pail  of  water  on  that 
fire,  nichie!"  He  turned  to  St.  John :  "It's  fellers 
like  him  that's  stripped  the  timber  in  this  north 
country.  It  ain't  rained  here  for  a  month,  an' 
everythin's  as  dry  as  a  bone.  Even  the  muskegs 
we  come  through  is  dry;  they  ain't  like  the  muskegs 
we  went  through  to  Felix's  mine — the  rock  holds 
the  water  there.  These  muskegs  was  all  made  by 
beavers  dammin'  up  streams,  so  they  dry  out.  It's 
terrible  what  a  fire'll  do  to  'em  when  it  gets 
started." 

"But  really,"  St.  John  answered,  "it  doesn't  make 
them  any  easier  to  travel.  The  long  grass  winds 
around  a  chap's  legs,  and  at  times,  where  it  looked 
quite  dry,  I  simply  went  to  my  knees  in  ooze." 

CHAPTER  VIII 

At  first  the  trail  led  across  uplifts  of  primary 
rocks,  cross-fissured,  but  worn  to  smoothness  by 


FOOL'S  GOLD  85 

glacier  action.  On  such  going  St.  John  was  in  a 
ferment  of  nervous  apprehension,  a  slip  might 
bring  him  down  on  top  of  the  essence  of  eruption 
which  he  carried.  Peloo,  whose  thoughts  toiled 
during  hours  of  physical  labour  over  the  most 
trivial  incidents,  possible  and  impossible,  had  been 
turning  this  thing  over  in  his  mind. 

At  ten  o'clock  they  had  their  first  spell,  a  tiny 
camp  fire  with  a  pail  of  tea.  Another  stop  was 
made  at  noon,  and  then  came  the  long  grind  of 
the  afternoon. 

After  a  third  spell  at  four  o'clock  they  took  up 
the  trail  again,  Red  in  the  lead,  picking  up  the 
blazed  trail  almost  obliterated  by  time,  the  scars 
left  by  the  woodsman's  ax  all  but  healed.  At  a 
suggestion  from  Meekins,  Peloo,  rifle  in  hand, 
brought  up  the  rear,  and  as  purple  shadows  com- 
menced to  dim  the  arched  openings  between  the 
giant  spruce  his  wary  eye  searched  with  keen  atten- 
tion the  forest  for  their  unseen  enemy. 

One  Wolf,  with  his  animal  instinct,  read  signs 
that  their  eyes  discovered  not.  Almost  at  Peloo's 
heels  he  hung.  Once  Peloo  called  to  Meekins : 
"This  pup  thinks  we  ain't  goin'  fast  enough;  he's 
crowdin'." 

Meekins  read  the  message;  that  the  dog  scented 
danger  from  their  mysterious  foe,  and  that  Peloo 
wanted  him  to  travel  faster.  With  a  feeling  of 
relief  he  heard  the  babble  of  waters,  for  the  blazes 
had  become  imperceptible;  he  had  been  travelling 
more  by  a  sense  of  direction  than  by  sight.  "Here's 


86  RED  MEEKINS 

the  ford  right  'nough,"  Meekins  declared;  "let's 
hike  across." 

They  waded  through  the  water  waist-deep,  St. 
John  floundering  jind  slipping  on  round  bowlders 
till  he  was  wet  to  the  neck.  On  the  other  bank, 
Grasshead  soon  had  a  blazing  fire.  Peloo  explained 
to  St.  John  the  somewhat  anomalous  relationship 
that  existed  between  wet  clothes  and  a  cold:  "You 
just  stand  by  that  fire,  mister,  till  you  steam  your- 
self dry  an'  you  won't  get  no  cold.  Even  if  you 
had  a  dry  suit  here  an'  made  a  change,  we'd  have 
to  take  you  to  the  hospital  in  the  mornin'." 

Meekins  had  pitched  the  camp  where  he  could 
keep  an  eye  on  the  ford.  As  they  sat  drying  them- 
selves by  the  fire  Peloo  said:  "Judgin'  from  that 
fool  dog's  acts,  I'd  say  Felix  beat  us  to  the 
crossin'." 

Erratic  as  One  Wolf  had  been,  his  present 
demeanor  was  still  more  mystifying.  He  was  pos- 
sessed of  an  insatiable  curiosity  which  caused  him 
to  make  peripatetic  incursions  to  the  woods,  always 
in  one  direction.  They  could  see  him  circling  and 
hear  him  sniffing.  Once  he  sat  on  haunches,  and, 
raising  his  wolfish  jaws,  sent  upward  a  discordant 
complaint. 

Grasshead  hurled  a  brand  at  the  dog,  crying 
angrily:  "Marsh!  Atim!"  Sundry  bits  of  pork 
and  bannock  caused  him  to  forget  his  troubles  for 
the  length  of  time  he  was  gulping  them. 

As  if  the  unrest  of  One  Wolf  had  spread  to 
Grasshead,  he  proposed  after  supper  that  they  move 


FOOL'S  GOLD  87 

the  camp  a  mile  farther  along  the  trail.  After  the 
manner  of  a  redskin  he  advanced  first  one  reason 
and  then  another  for  this  unusual  proceeding.  As 
Trout  and  Meekins  exposed  the  fallacy  of  each  the 
Indian  finally  said:  "This  bad  camp  for  sleep. 
That  white  man  buried  jus'  there.  Injun  all  say 
come  ever'  night  on  trail  an'  make  trouble — plenty 
trouble." 

"That's  what's  worryin'  the  pup?"  Peloo  sug- 
gested. 

"Mebbe,"  Grasshead  grunted. 

"We'll  camp  right  here,"  Red  interjected.  "If 
this  place's  s'posed  to  hold  spooks,  the  live  ones 
that's  botherin'  us'll  keep  away;  we'll  get  some 
sleep." 

"By  Jove,  that's  a  ripping  fine  idea!"  St.  John 
declared.  "If  you  want  seclusion  and  quiet,  asso- 
ciate with  ghosts.  Devilish  odd,  that!" 

CHAPTER    IX 

After  supper  the  men  sat  around  the  camp  fire, 
smoking  moodily.  Even  Peloo,  after  one  or  two 
attempts  at  raillery,  lapsed  into  stolid  silence.  He 
unearthed  a  needle  and  thread  from  some  hidden 
place  of  deposit  in  his  clothes,  and  was  sewing  a 
right-angled  rent  in  his  overalls. 

St.  John,  numbed  with  physical  exhaustion,  lay  on 
the  ground,  his  head  and  shoulders  propped  against 
a  birch  log  that  Grasshead  had  rolled  up  to  the  fire, 
idly  watching  the  erratic  movements  of  Meekins. 


88  RED  MEEKINS 

He  saw  the  latter  examine  a  little,  upright  post 
that  had  been  driven  in  the  ground  on  the  river 
bank;  then  Red  searched  the  ground  all  around 
the  post.  St.  John  saw  him  stoop  and  pick  up 
something  and  return  with  it  to  the  camp  fire. 
Then  he  sat  down,  and  apparently  proceeded  to 
play  a  crude  game  of  forest  chess  with  three  little 
sticks,  moving  them  back  and  forth,  wrinkling  his 
brow,  the  monotonous  puff-puff  of  his  pipe  almost 
the  only  sound  that  broke  the  solemn  stillness. 

Across  the  camp  fire  Grasshead  and  One  Wolf 
were  curled  up  in  the  attitude  of  sleep.  At  times  the 
dog  raised  his  head,  his  wolfish  ears  pricked,  and 
read  the  semicircle  of  the  darkened  woods  for  the 
scent  of  something  evil;  then  he  dropped  his  lean- 
jowled  head  across  his  paws,  the  eyes,  lighted  by 
the  fire,  glowing  like  moonstones. 

A  wild  peal  of  demoniac  laughter  brought  the 
Englishman  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  of:  "Good 
heavens!" 

Straight  down  the  river  a  voice  came,  nearing 
them  with  terrific  speed;  it  was  as  fiendish  as  though 
a  lost  soul  had  been  sent  hurtling  through  space. 

Meekins  did  not  look  up.  Peloo,  a  quizzical 
look  of  amusement  in  the  eyes,  adjusted  the  thread 
in  his  needle,  remarking:  "That's  about  the  best- 
named  critter  that  ever  was;  a  loon  he's  named, 
an'  plumb  looney  he  is." 

The  raucous-voiced  bird  had  startled  others  in 
the  forest.  A  stately  owl,  somewhere  close  at  hand, 
chided  in  heavy  tones  the  disturber;  then,  as  if 


FOOL'S  GOLD  89 

seized  by  a  sudden  passionate  desire  to  outdo  the 
loon,  with  a  shrill  scream  he  swooped  down  from 
his  perch  and  swirled  away  into  the  bush. 

"By  Jove,  I  appreciate  your  remarks  about  a 
quiet  life  on  the  trail,  Trout!"  St.  John  commented, 
with  a  laugh. 

Meekins  threw  his  little  sticks  into  the  fire, 
knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and  said:  "I 
guess  that's  'tout  the  way  it  figgers  out.  That 
cussed  dog  has  only  got  one  kind  of  brains — the 
kind  that  remembers.  Injun  dogs  are  all  like  that. 
That  herrin'-gutted  pup  see  that  body  over  there 
once.  They're  all  afraid  of  a  white  man,  'specially 
a  dead  white1  man.  Squabo  was  the  guide  that  come 
to  Loon  Lake  with  the  feller  that  got  killed." 

"Pardon  me,"  St.  John  said  apologetically,  "but 
you  said  they  sent  Squabo  back." 

"Ho,  Grasshead!"  Meekins  called.  When  the 
Indian  sat  up  stupidly,  Red  asked:  "Can  canoe  come 
from  Moon  Landing  here?" 

"Yes— long  road." 

"They  sent  Squabo  back  to  bring  the  canoe  to  this 
crossin'  to  wait,"  Meekins  resumed.  "Why  I  can't 
just  make  out.  P'r'aps  they  thought  they'd  pack 
out  a  lot  of  free  gold.  Then  they  come  over  the 
trail,  goes  right  on,  an'  finds  the  mine.  Guess  there 
was  so  much  gold  it  puts  the  Killer  to  the  bad.  He 
slips  away  at  night,  takin'  all  the  grub.  He's  planted 
the  bad  cartridges  in  the  tenderfoot's  gun.  He 
means  to  get  Squabo  an'  the  canoe  an'  hit  the  wide 
outside  an'  register  the  mine.  He's  sure  his  mate'll 


90  RED  MEEKINS 

starve  to  death,  an'  if  anybody  finds  the  body  the 
verdic'll  be,  'Died  of  exposure  an'  want  of  nourish- 
ment.' " 

As  Meekins  lighted  his  pipe,  St.  John  offered 
encouragement.  "It's  as  good  as  Doyle;  you're  a 
forest  Sherlock  Holmes,"  he  commented. 

Peloo  was  on  the  point  of  solving  the  mystery  of 
who  Doyle  was  when  Meekins  forestalled  him  by 
resuming:  "When  the  Killer  strikes  this  crossin' 
Squabo  ain't  arrived;  the  Injun  thinks  they  will  be 
some  time  at  the  mine,  so  he  don't  hurry — puts 
in  a  lot  of  time  sleepin'  an'  eatin'.  The  Killer  is 
in  a  fix.  He  don't  want  Squabo  to  take  the  tender- 
foot out,  don't  want  'em  to  hook  up.  It  might 
be  that  this  Moose  River  had  swelled  up  from  a  big 
rain  an'  he  couldn't  cross.  P'r'aps  that's  why,  when 
he  hears  the  man  he'd  robbed  comin'  along  like  a 
bull  moose,  he  dropped  him  with  a  pinch  of  lead — 
'cause  he  couldn't  get  away." 

"Why  didn't  he  swim  it?"  St.  John  queried. 

"There  ain't  none  of  these  half-breeds  could 
swim  across  a  street  gutter;  they've  got  as  much 
likin'  for  water  as  a  mad  dog." 

"Ah,  now,  how  do  you  know  it  was  a  half-breed?" 

Peloo,  looking  up  quickly,  saw  a  flutter  of  con- 
fusion in  Red's  face,  but  the  latter  answered:  "I 
ain't  said  it  was  a  half-breed." 

"But,  Red,"  Peloo  asked,  "how  d'you  know  the 
Killer  didn't  wait  for  Squabo?" 

"  'Cause  we  know  he  took  the  dead  man's  rifle 
an'  pumped  her  empty  at  Loon  Lake.  Besides,  he 


FOOL'S  GOLD  91 

leaves  a  lyin'  message  for  the  Injun  that  him  an' 
the  other  has  both  gone  back  by  trail,  an'  to  take 
the  canoe  back  to  where  he  come  from." 

"Somebody  must've  wrote  you  a  letter  'bout  this, 
Red,"  Peloo  commented  facetiously. 

"They  did,  though  they  didn't  mean  to.  I  got 
her  right  here,"  and  Meekins  picked  up  a  square 
of  birch  bark.  He  held  it  spread  out  in  the  light 
of  the  camp  fire,  and  the  others  saw  on  the  yellow, 
leatherlike  inside  of  the  bark  figures  drawn  in  char- 
coal. Two  men  were  drawn  walking  toward  a  tepee. 
On  the  top  was  an  animal,  which,  after  a  joint 
debate,  they  agreed  was  a  bear,  largely  because  it 
was  less  like  any  other  animal. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  bear,"  Red  said,  "but  it 
bothered  me  if  it  is.  At  first  I  thought  it  meant 
Squabo's  dog."  He  handed  the  bark  to  Grasshead. 

"Him  Muskwa — white  man  call  bear.  That 
Squabo's  name,  Muskwa.  Squabo  his  lie  name." 

"That's  how  she  reads  now,"  Meekins  said. 
'  'Muskwa,  us  two  men  goin'  back  to  tepee,' 
meanin'  goin'  home.  Beside  the  post  this  was  stuck 
in  I  found  an  arrow-headed  stick  driven  in  the 
ground  leanin'  toward  the  ford.  That's  the  way  an 
Injun  leaves  word  of  which  direction  he's  travellin' 
in." 

"Why  didn't  he  wait  for  Squabo  when  the  other 
man  was  not  to  be  feared?"  St.  John  persisted. 

"He  just  was  feared  of  him,  of  his  ghost.  He 
couldn't  sleep.  He  lights  out  when  the  water  lets 
down — if  it  was  up.  When  Squabo  comes  here  his 


92  RED  MEEKINS 

fool  dog  noses  that  body  out;  then  Squabo  hikes  out 
an'  keeps  the  canoe." 

"The  Killer  even  stole  the  dead  man's  gun," 
St.  John  remarked  bitterly. 

"At  first  he'd  take  it,  bein'  too  clever  to  leave  it 
as  a  mark  who  the  skeleton  was,  an'  then  it  was 
so  like  a  new  toy  he  didn't  throw  it  in  the  river, 
but  hung  on  to  it  till  he  got  to  Loon  Lake.  You 
see,"  Red  offered,  "it's  hard  to  figger  out  just  how 
a  feller  workin'  under  that  kind  of  pressure  acts; 
he  gener'lly  always  does  some  high-class  fool  things. 
About  half  my  guess'll  be  wrong." 

"By  Jove,  you're  getting  on !  You've  discovered 
one  party,  Squabo.  If  you  could  only  get  him  now, 
he  could  tell  you  who  killed  this  Englishman " 

St.  John  stopped  abruptly  as  Red,  turning  his 
face  quickly,  ejaculated:  "I  ain't  said  he  was  an 
Englishman." 

St.  John,  recovering  from. a  little  confusion,  said 
hastily:  "You  called  him  *a  tenderfoot;  I -thought 
only  Englishmen  were  supposed  to  be  green  in 
Canada." 

Meekins,  changing  the  subject,  but  making  a 
false  step  himself,  declared:  "Squabo  will  never  tell 
who  it  was  now.  Dead  men  tell  no  tales." 

"Is  Squabo  dead,  too?  I  didn't  know  that." 
St.  John's  eyes  were  wide  in  astonishment. 

Peloo  interposed:  "Grasshead  says  a  pack  of 
wolves  chased  Squabo  after  he  left  camp  that  night; 
he  heard  'em.  It's  a  sure  thing  they  got  him,  'cause 
the  dog  come  back  to  us." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  93 

There  followed  a  space  of  depressing  silence. 
They  all  carried  mental  packs  filled  with  the  brood- 
ing gruesomeness  of  the  gold  trail.  Even  St.  John, 
materialistic  Englishman,  felt  it.  Peloo,  to  whom 
small  talk  was  as  knitting  to  an  idle  woman,  broke 
the  oppressive  stillness.  "Did  you  know  a  Lord 
Happyland  in  England,  Mr.  St.  John?"  he  queried 
abruptly. 

"What — eh,  what?"  St.  John  gasped;  then  he 
coughed.  "Pardon — must  have  swallowed  some 
smoke.  What  did  you  ask,  Trout?  Ah,  yes,  I 
know;  I  know  a  Lord  Hapland" 

"You  was  speakin'  of  English  greenhorns  a  min- 
ute ago,  an'  it  made  me  remember  one  that  come 
to  Haileybury.  He  was  the  only  one  of  the  tribe 
I  ever  see  make  good.  He  was  some  man — but, 
Lord,  he  was  a  fool  to  himself  I  They  called  him 
Lord  Happy,  an'  I  heard  his  father  was  Lord 
Happyland;  he  might've  been  that  same  friend  of 
yours,  Hapland." 

"He  wasn't  a  friend,"  St.  John  corrected  quickly. 
"I  just  know  of  him  in  'Burke's,'  you  know." 

Peloo  didn't  understand  the  allusion  to  "Burke's 
Peerage,"  but  his  next  words  again  caused  the 
Englishman  confusion :  "As  the  firelight  hit  your 
face  a  bit  ago  you  looked  as  if  old  'Happy'  sat 
there;  I  got  a  start." 

"Interesting,  I  must  say,"  St  John  commented. 
"Tell  us  about  him." 

"He  was  a  boozer  with  a  capital  b.  Even  boozed, 
he  was  a  gentleman,  though,  an'  he  had  more  luck 


94  RED  MEEKINS 

than  a  seventh  son  born  in  a  caul.  He  didn't  know 
enough  'bout  minin'  to  be  allowed  loose  if  there  was 
any  dynamite  about,  but  he  goes  out  shootin'  one 
day  an'  comes  back  to  the  Nugget  Hotel  with  his 
pockets  full  of  native  silver.  He  had  to  get  a  feller 
to  show  him  how  to  stake  the  claim.  That  was  the 
'Tewey  Mine/  an'  she  was  some  mine.  He  sold 
it  an'  went  into  the  bus'ness  of  supportin'  the  town 
— bums  an'  all;  didn't  make  no  dif'rence  to  Lord 
Happy.  A  feller  sold  him  a  diamond  ring,  then 
borrowed  it  back  an'  sold  it  again  to  a  feller  that 
gave  it  to  his  girl.  When  Happy  found  a  girl  had 
it  he  just  laughed.  They  trimmed  him,  what  with 
loaded  mines  an'  loaded  cards,  et  cetera;  he  was 
down  to  waitin'  for  the  remittance  that  used  to 
come  from  England.  One  day  I  come  into  the 
Nugget  bar,  an'  it  was  plumb  high  tide — they  was 
up  to  their  knees  in  booze.  Things  had  been  dull  in 
Haileybury,  as  the  boom  had  took  a  sick  spell,  so 
I  kind  of  wondered  what  had  happened.  I  see  'bout 
ten  of  'em  swan-necked  bottles  with  goldy  locks 
on  the  bar,  an'  the  fellers  was  so  full  of  the  bubble- 
water  that  they  was  just  playin'  with  it.  It  makes 
me  dry  now." 

St.  John  was  laughing,  and  Red  spat  in  the  fire 
with  a  growling  curse. 

"Kind  of  rubbin'  it  in,"  Pelpo  observed,  "but  it 
ain't  meant.  I  asks  Smooth  Hagan,  the  barkeep, 
what's  it  all  about,  an'  Hagan  says,  'Gad,  all  the 
boys's  got  money  again  I  Lord  Happy's  made 
another  strike.'  " 


FOOL'S  GOLD  95 

Peloo  filled  his  pipe.  When  it  was  lighted  he 
added:  "It  didn't  last  long;  a  suit  over  the  mine 
helped  break  Happy.  Then  he  got  a  pointer  from  a 
little  priest  he  had  given  a  big  wad  of  money  to 
for  his  mission.  He  lit  out,  an'  ain't  been  heard  of 
since.  He'll  turn  up  some  day  with  a  million,  I 
bet." 

"How  long  has  he  been  gone?"  St.  John  asked 
casually. 

"  'Bout  six  months,  I  guess.  I  ain't  been  in 
Haileybury  for  a  year,  an'  only  heard  'bout  how 
he  finished  up." 

"Perhaps  this  poor  man  was  Lord  Harry — I 
mean ,"  St.  John  broke  off  in  confusion. 

"Lord  Happy  we  called  him.  It  was  just  that 
thought  that  started  me  talkin'  'bout  him.  He  was 
just  the  feller  to  trust  that  damn  breed — I  mean 
whoever  it  was  with  him,"  Peloo  resumed. 

St.  John  turned  to  the  Indian:  "Did  you  put  a 
headstone  to  mark  his  grave,  Grasshead?" 

"I  blazed  big  cross  on  tree,"  the  Indian  answered 
stolidly. 

"I'd  like  to  see  it — will  you  show  me,  please?" 
But  Grasshead  had  cramp  in  his  leg. 

"You're  a  squaw;  you're  af eared  of  the  ghost!" 
Meekins  declared  scornfully.  "Come  on,  mister, 
I'll  find  the  blazed  tree.  I  saw  the  place  that  fool 
pup  was  makin'  goo-goo  eyes  at." 

The  early  night  was  clear,  an  afterglow,  and  they 
soon  found  the  tree  with  the  sacred  scar,  its  black 
cross '  showing  against  the  silver-white  birch  bark. 


96  RED  MEEKINS 

There  was  no  mound  manifestation  of  the  tragedy. 
As  Meekins  ran  his  hand  casually  down  the  blaze 
he  gave  an  exclamation  of  discovery;  then  he  struck 
a  match.  Its  light  showed  a  silver  cigarette  case 
fixed  in  the  blaze,  being  held  there  by  a  sinew 
thong. 

"That  was  very  decent  of  the  Indians,"  St.  John 
said. 

"They  wouldn't  take  the  dead  man's  traps, 
'specially  something  that  was  no  good  to  'em.  The 
Indians  always  put  on  a  grave  things  like  a  pipe  or 
a  fire  bag,  as  they  call  the  pouch  the  Injun  carries 
his  tobacco  an'  matches  in;  they  think  he  needs  'em 
on  the  journey  to  the  Happy  Huntin'  Ground. 
What  does  that  read?"  And  Meekins  pointed  to 
a  monogram  or  crest  on  the  case. 

St.  John  examined  it  closely.  "I  can't  make  it 
out;  just  his  initials,  I  should  say." 

Meekins  pretended  to  examine  the  ground,  and, 
moving  in  a  circle,  drew  away  from  the  tree,  leaving 
the  Englishman  there.  Presently  St.  John  joined 
him  as  he  stood  waiting,  and  the  two  returned  to 
the  camp. 

When  Meekins  related  to  Trout  the  incident  of 
the  cigarette  case,  the  latter  declared  that  it  was 
Lord  Happy  buried  beneath,  for  that  gentleman 
had  clung  to  his  cigarette  case  always.  "I'm  goin' 
to  have  a  look  at  it  in  the  mornin' — I'd  know  it," 
he  declared. 

"I  guess  you'll  have  to  get  UJD  early,"  Meekins 
remarked  as  he  turned  in. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  97 

CHAPTER  X 

One  Wolf  must  have  been  quiet  and  the  ghost 
off  duty,  for  the  tired  Peloo  slept  until  he  was 
awakened  by  his  woodsman's  ear;  something  was 
stepping  cautiously  near  him.  It  was  Meekins, 
and  it  was  broad  daylight. 

"Where  you  been?"  he  asked  suspiciously,  as 
Red  sat  down. 

Meekins  jerked  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
grave.  "I've  been  over  there — it's  gone." 

"What!     The  cigarette  case?" 

"Yes." 

"Felix  got  it?" 

"No,  Felix  ain't  been  there.  I  kind  of  got  an 
idee,  when  I  was  over  there  last  night,  that  case 
might  disappear,  an'  I  wanted  to  make  sure  which 
one  of  two  fellers  would  get  it.  I  stuck  a  couple 
of  matches  in  the  string  so  a  hawk-eye  breed  could 
see  'em — or,  if  it  was  kind  of  dark,  feel  'em  as  he 
reached  for  the  toy.  I  put  a  couple  more  on  the 
ground;  they  was  all  there  just  now." 

"Felix  might've  missed  'em  in  the  dark." 

"He  wouldn't  go  near  that  ghost  hole  in  the  dark 
for  a  million;  no  breed  would.  He'd  go  before  we 
was  up.  I  thought  he  might  go  there  to  see  if  we'd 
dug  up  anything." 

"You  think  English  took  it,  then.  P'rhaps  he 
was  lookin'  for  a  brother  or  somebody  that's  got 
lost  out  here." 

Meekins  ran  his  fingers  through  his  shock  of  red 


98  RED  MEEKINS 

hair,  then  he  said:  "We  got  to  dig  that  body  up 
for  him — that's  if  he  wants  it.  I'm  goin'  to  make 
a  play  that  I  want  to  see  who  got  plugged." 

Grasshead  had  breakfast  ready,  and,  as  they  ate, 
Meekins  sprang  his  proposal  on  St.  John;  the  latter, 
innocently  swallowing  the  bait,  eagerly  commended 
the  plan,  declaring  that  he  had  an  idle  curiosity 
himself. 

When  the  body  that  was  in  its  shallow  grave  was 
lifted  out,  Peloo  sank  his  teeth  into  the  knuckles 
of  his  fist  to  smother  an  irreverent  guffaw.  The 
dead  man  was  heavy-set,  swarthy-featured,  with 
the  undeniable  stamp  of  commonness  about  him. 
Red  stared,  then  he  looked  at  Trout  sheepishly. 

St.  John,  who  had  stood  by  with  his  eyes  fixed  in 
intense  eagerness  upon  the  body  as  the  two  lifted 
it  out,  gave  an  audible  sigh  of  relief;  he  drew  in  a 
deep  breath  and  straightened  up  as  though  a  load 
had  slipped  from  his  shoulders. 

"Don't look  much  like  one  of  'em  cigarette  dudes, 
does  he?"  Peloo  commented.  "A  chaw  of  nigger- 
head  tdftaccer'd  be  more  in  his  line.  He's  'bout  as 
far  apart  from  Lord  Happy  as  a  codfish  is  from  a 
canary." 

Meekins  pretended  to  make  a  discovery.  "Holy 
Moses!  If  that  cigarette  case  ain't  gone!"  he 
exclaimed.  "Felix  must've  grabbed  it  in  the  night." 

Peloo  turned  to  St.  John.  "Red  was  tellin'  me 
'bout  findin'  that  cigarette  case  last  night,  an'  I 
was  afeared  that  Lord  Happy  was  buried  here.  He 
was  the  only  man  I  ever  knqjyed  would  pack  one  of 


FOOL'S  GOLD  99 

'em  toys  into  the  woods.  Wish  I'd  seen  it;  I'd 
know  at  once  if  it  was  the  one  old  Happy  had." 

The  Englishman  hesitated;  he  coughed;  his  face 
flushed  under  the  mental  struggle.  Here  was  a 
chance  for  him  to  settle  the  very  question  that  was 
in  his  mind.  Suddenly  he  shoved  a  hand  in  his 
pocket,  and,  thrusting  the  case  toward  Peloo,  asked 
eagerly:  "There  it  is.  Is  that  the  one  you  saw 
your  Lord  Happy  have  ?" 

Peloo  turned  the  silver  case  over  in  his  hand  and 
examined  the  crest.  "That's  him.  You  must've 
picked  it  up  where  it  fell,  eh,  Mr.  St.  John?" 

"I  guess  we'd  best  bury  this  poor  chap  again," 
Meekins  interrupted. 

When  they  returned  to  the  camp,  St.  John  said: 
"I  took  the  cigarette  case  off  the  tree.  I — I  was 

afraid — I  mean "  Then  he  seemed  to  come 

out  of  a  momentary  confusion.  "I  think  I  had  bet- 
ter confide  in  you  gentlemen.  I'm  really  looking 
for  a  relative.  A  very  near  relative  came  out  to 
this  country,  and — and — that  is,  we  have  lost  touch 
with  him.  There  is  some  weighty  matter  pending 
— in  fact,  there  is  a  title  kicking  around  loose,  and 
I'm  inclined  to  believe  that  the  Lord  Happy  you 
know  is — is — that  is  to  say,  might  be  the  missing 
man.  And  I  feel  tremendously  pleased  that  this 
other  chap  was  murdered — I  mean  that  it  wasn't 
Lord  Happy."  The  usually  calm  Englishman  had 
become  ambiguous  under  the  strain  of  confiding 
family  matters  to  comparative  strangers. 

"We  may  get  some  light  on  how  this  other  chap 


100  RED  MEEKINS 

come  by  that  smoke  box  when  we  get  to  the  gold 
mine,"  Meekins  suggested.  "Looks  like  as  Happy 
must've  been  in  the  party." 

"You  don't  think  he  could  have  shot  this  man, 
do  you?"  St.  John's  voice  trembled  over  the  ques- 
tion. 

Meekins  ran  his  fingers  through  his  scarlet  locks; 
and  Peloo,  seeing  this  sign  of  worrying  thought 
said:  "That's  so,  Red.  Him  an'  the  other  feller 
that  was  at  Loon  Lake  might' ve  had  trouble  with 
this  duck,  though  old  Happy  wouldn't  murder 
nobody." 

"If  the  feller  that  went  in  with  the  Killer  come 
back  here  with  him,  they  wouldn't  go  on  to  Loon 
Lake;  he'd  wait  here  for  Squabo  an'  his  Peter- 
borough to  get  out  of  these  parts  with.  But  he 
didn't,  'cause  Squabo  had  the  canoe.  If  they  was 
both  here,  Squabo  wouldn't  think  there  was  any- 
thin'  wrong." 

"I  guess  the  feller  that  went  in  with  that  mur- 
derer didn't  come  out  again,"  Peloo  declared. 

The  trail  they  now  took  up  was  difficult.  The 
blazes  had  been  made  long  ago  and  were  hard  to 
follow.  But  as  they  plodded  through  muskegs  and 
over  fallen  timber,  Meekins  made  a  discovery — 
the  blazes  suddenly  were  fresh,  but  a  few  months 
old.  As  he  explained,  perhaps  the  two  men  going 
in  had  cut  fresh  blazes  to  expedite  the  coming  out. 
After  this  discovery,  they  travelled  with  more  free- 
dom. A  thick  haze  obscured  the  sun  all  day. 

It  was  about  four  o'clock  that  Meekins  stopped 


FOOL'S  GOLD  101 

suddenly,  slipped  his  pack,  and,  hurrying  forward, 
thrashed  about  in  the  wood.  St.  John  and  Peloo, 
not  understanding,  were  puffing  patiently  at  their 
pipes,  at  times  a  forceful  word  of  profane  caste 
coming  to  them  from  Meekins'  vicinity. 

"Red's  doin'  a  work-out,"  Peloo  explained. 
"When  he's  that  talkative  to  himself  there's  some 
just  cause;  we  best  wait." 

Meekins  had  sent  Grasshead  on  ahead;  the  In- 
dian now  returned,  grunting  angrily:  "No  trail; 
him  lost!" 

"What's  wrong,  Meekins?"  St.  John  queried. 

"We've  been  follerin'  a  blind  trail,  that's  all.  I 
ought  to've  known  there  was  some  hell'ry  on  when 
I  struck  that  thief's  blazin'."  Red  pointed  at  the 
sun  that  had  emerged  from  the  haze.  "That  red- 
faced  snoozer  shows  me  that  I've  been  goin' 
straight  north  for  some  time,  follerin'  this  crooked 
lead.  If  I'd  looked  at  my  compass,  I'd've  found 
out  in  time." 

"But  these  blazes  ain't  new,  Red;  Felix 
couldn't've  run  'em  to  steer  us  wrong." 

"They  was  new  in  the  spring.  See  what  the 
Killer  done.  When  he  was  leavin'  the  other  man 
he  runs  this  false  line  of  blazes,  startin'  at  some 
place  the  other  feller  would  pick  it  up  as  he  was 
chasin'.  When  the  Killer  come  to  here,  he  stops 
cuttin'  blazes  an'  takes  across  country,  as  any  Injun 
or  half-breed  could.  His  idee  was  that  the  tender- 
foot would  foller  it  to  here,  then  get  lost  tryin'  to 
get  across,  an'  starve  to  death.  By  some  chance 


102  RED  MEEKINS 

the  poor  feller  must've  overshot  the  decoy  trail 
an'  kept  straight  on  the  old  line  to  Moose  River." 

The  sun  buried  itself  in  a  bank  of  smoke  that 
filled  the  sky.  Red  turned  to  Grasshead,  asking: 
"Where  is  Bitter  Lake?  We're  six  hours  north  of 
the  proper  trail  now — it's  too  far  to  go  back." 

The  Indian  swept  with  his  eyes  the  encircling 
forest  and  slowly  indicated  the  direction  in  which 
the  lake  lay. 

"Can  you  catch  him,  Grasshead?" 

"Yes,  mebbe;  plenty  muskeg." 

"Well,  we'll  make  a  try  for  it,"  Meekins 
declared.  "We'll  go  as  far  as  we  can  to-night, 
camp,  and  to-morrow  pick  it  up  in  daylight."  He 
looked  at  his  compass,  taking  the  direction  of  Bitter 
Water  Lake.  "We  won't  need  this  unless  some- 
thing should  happen  to  Grasshead.  He'll  find  the 
lake,  just  as  a  horse'll  travel  for  a  week  an'  strike 
his  own  stable." 

The  Indian  took  the  lead,  but  Meekins  hung  at 
his  heels,  his  rifle  slung  so  that  its  stock  was  under 
his  right  arm.  "Bears  is  terrible  cheeky  this  time 
of  year,"  he  explained  to  St.  John. 

Moodily,  without  exchange  of  speech,  they 
marched.  St.  John  had  been  tired  yesterday,  and 
the  day  before  that,  but  now  his  spirits  were  heavy 
with  a  weariness  of  body  and  soul. 

They  had  dipped  down  into  a  monotonously  flat 
country;  stunted  spruce  and  cedar,  and  occasionally 
a  labyrinth  of  dead  tamarack,  all  killed  by  a  grub 
pest.  Struggling  to  keep  pace  with  the  others,  St. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  103 

John  watched  through  his  sun-bleared,  fly-blistered 
eyes  the  forms  of  his  companions.  They  loomed 
fantastically  unreal,  plodding,  plodding  over  the 
interminable  flat  of  the  cedar-studded  valley.  Their 
titanic  forms  moved  easily  forward,  never  resting, 
never  hesitating.  Resistlessly,  with  no  movement 
of  complaint  or  dissatisfaction,  the  ungainly  Peloo 
pursued  the  tower  of  packages  that  topped  the  form 
of  Meekins  beyond.  St.  John  pressed  palms  that 
were  greasy  with  hot  sweat  to  his  temples;  his  brain 
was  in  tortured  turmoil.  In  his  ears,  distinct,  was 
the  thumping  pump  of  his  heart,  clogging  with  its 
thickened  blood.  He  wanted  to  cry  out  to  the 
others,  begging  them  to  wait  while  he  rested  just 
for  a  little.  He  put  a  hand  to  his  neck  and  felt 
the  veins  that  stood  out  like  cords.  A  cedar  root, 
crawling  aimlessly  through  the  soggy  moss,  wan- 
dered over  his  feet,  and  he  splashed  heavily  into  the 
ooze  that  was  still  sending  up  bubbles  from  where 
Peloo  had  passed. 

Trout  passed  in  his  stride  over  a  log,  looked  back, 
and  asked:  "Are  you  all  right?" 

St.  John  struggled  to  his  feet,  spat  the  black 
mud  from  his  mouth,  and,  yielding  to'  irritated 
nerves,  answered  sarcastically:  "Yes,  I'm  feeling 
much  better,  thank  you.  It  has  really  done  me  a 
lot  of  good."  He  glared  at  Peloo  and  inwardly 
added:  "The  devilish  ass!" 

Peloo  chuckled  and  settled  down  to  the  log 
between  his  legs.  "It's  kind  of  heavy  goin',"  he 
said,  waiting  while  the  Englishman  dug  from 


104  RED  MEEKINS 

beneath  his  collar  and  out  of  his  hair  and  eyes  the 
plastic  mold;  "but  these  swamps  is  good  for  a  feller, 
in  some  ways;  they  ease  your  feet  if  you've  been 
hittin'  the  turnpike  much.  I  remember  once  I  was 
for  'bout  a  month  straight  on  end  on  a  trail  that'd 
fell  overboard,  an'  'bout  the  finish  of  it  I  just  shook 
the  corns  out  of  my  boots  same's  hailstones.  I'd 
been  terrible  bad  with  corns,  too." 

St.  John  put  his  h^nd  on  Trout's  shoulder,  say- 
ing: "If  ever  you  come  to  London,  my  dear  sir,  you 
must  dine  with  me  at  my  club,  and  relate  some  of 
your  experiences  to  the  fellows." 

"I'd  be  very  glad  to,  mister,"  Peloo  agreed,  quite 
innocently. 

Meekins,  during  the  little  halt,  had  whipped  out 
his  compass.  He  studied  it  with  evident  perplexity. 
Grasshead  stood  silently  watching  him. 

"Is  Bitter  Water  east,  Grasshead?"  he  asked. 

"Him  east,"  the  Ojibwa  answered. 

With  a  forefinger  Meekins  beckoned.  "See?" 
he  queried.  "We've  been  travellin'  south;  we're 
just  out  a  full  quarter  of  the  circle." 

"Little  clock  speak  lie;  him  no  good,"  the  Indian 
declared. 

"Peloo,"  Red  called,  "come  an'  look  at  this. 
I've  give  up  knowin'  anythin'  'bout  the  woods. 
Soon's  I  get  out  I'm  goin'  to  buy  me  a  plug  hat 
an'  a  b'iled  shirt  an'  settle  down  in  Toronto.  Per- 
s'nally  I  have  an  idee  the  earth  is  kind  of  cut  from 
its  reg'lar  bearin's,  an'  is,  so  to  speak,  a  foul  ball 
to-day.  That  north  is  straight  behind  us,  an'  that 


FOOL'S  GOLD  105 

east  is  correspondingly  up  where  we  allowed  north 
was." 

"We  got  to  go  by  the  compass  or  by  the  Injun," 
Peloo  offered. 

"I  never  knew  this  compass  out  yet,"  Red 
declared. 

"Clock  no  good,"  Grasshead  growled.  "See 
him?"  and  he  rubbed  the  moss  from  the  side  of  a 
birch  tree.  "That  side  north — tree  got  good  coat : 
Keewatin  (the  north  wind)  cold."  He  pointed  to 
the  tops  of  the  tapering  spruce  and  slim-growing 
poplars  that  were  obviously  leaning  in  one  general 
direction.  "Southeast,"  he  declared.  "Northwest 
wind  strong,  blow  all  time — bend  him  when  little." 

But  Red  was  obdurate;  a  good  compass  wouldn't 
lie,  and  sometimes  Indian  signs  failed.  He  was 
going  to  stick  to  the  compass  till  he  got  a  correct 
direction  from  the  sun,  or,  at  night,  the  Big  Dipper. 

CHAPTER  XI 

Then  they  travelled  for  hours;  finally  they  came 
to  an  uplift  of  sand  hills.  Solitary,  isolated  trees 
seemed  to  have  crept  up  out  of  the  more  luxuriant 
swamp  to  wander  disconsolately  over  the  unkind 
sands.  Suddenly  a  turmoil  in  the  distance  caused 
Meekins  to  slip  the  tump  strap  from  his  forehead, 
drop  his  pack,  and  stand,  rifle  in  hand,  waiting. 

Through  an  opening  he  saw  a  man  approaching 
diagonally.  He  was  moving  with  alacrity.  With 
a  snarl,  One  Wolf  charged  to  intercept  the  runner. 


106  RED  MEEKINS 

"That  feller's  breezin'  along  like  a  quarter- 
horse,"  Peloo  commented.  "Somethin's  chasin' 
him,  an'  from  the  humpy  way  of  gallopin'  it's  got 
I'd  say  it  was  a  bear,  Red." 

"Whatever  it  is,  first  feller  don't  like  him — he's 
try  in'  to  give  him  the  go-by." 

One  Wolf  had  thrust  himself  into  the  pilgrim's 
line  of  vision,  and  the  latter  became  aware  of  the 
dog's  associates.  Curving  his  eager  run,  he  headed 
in  their  direction.  One  Wolf  rushed  to  meet  him. 
The  sight  of  the  dog's  fangs  caused  the  wayfarer 
to  hesitate,  but  one  furtive  look  over  his  shoulder, 
and  he  resumed  his  speedy  flight.  One  Wolf  also 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  bear,  and,  turning  tail,  he 
headed  the  approaching  procession. 

It  was  an  exciting  contest  of  speed.  The  man, 
in  spite  of  his  earnestness,  was  losing  ground.  The 
staying  power  of  his  pursuer  was  evident;  the  far- 
ther they  travelled,  the  closer  the  bear  got. 

"If  nobody  interferes,  the  man'll  lose,"  Peloo 
adjudged. 

"What  had  we  better  do?"  St.  John  queried. 

"Just  watch  Red;  he's  got  a  down  on  bears. 

Suddenly  Meekins'  elbow  shot  out;  the  lean 
black  barrel  of  the  rifle  belched  forth  a  little  cloud 
of  smoke;  the  bear  checked,  shot  forward  head  over 
heels,  rose,  clawing  at  his  side,  and  spun  around  like 
a  top  three  times.  The  man  kept  on  running.  Then 
the  bear  sat  back  on  his  haunches  and  stared  in  their 
direction,  a  stupid  expression  of  wonderment  on  his 
face.  The  rifle  barked  again.  The  big  black  shaggy 


FOOL'S  GOLD  107 

head  drooped,  wagged  heavily  from  one  side  to 
the  other,  and  then  the  massive  body  slipped  to  the 
ground  over  on  its  side,  where  it  lay,  the  limbs 
twitching  spasmodically. 

One  Wolf  whipped  atjout  again  at  the  crack  of 
the  rifleI  and,  seeing  the  bear  passive,  he  scuttled 
back  to  the  dead  animal  and  marched  around  it 
with  stiff,  poppy  legs,  the  bristles  on  his  back  erect 
and  vibrating,  drawing  his  circle  smaller  and 
smaller. 

The  man  had  arrived.  He  stood  for  a  second, 
pumping  air  into  his  lungs,  eyeing  Meekins  admir- 
ingly; then  he  gasped:  "Say,  you  was  johnny-on- 
the-spot,  right  enough,  that  time,  pard." 

"You  had  a  close  call,  sir,"  St.  John  said  sym- 
pathetically. 

The  stranger  looked  at  the  speaker  and  declared 
indignantly:  "Not  on  your  life!  I  was  a-leavin' 
him  every  jump.  I  never  see  a  bear  yet  I  couldn't 
outrun.  He  got  close  at  first,  but  I  never  was  a 
sprinter." 

It  was  St.  John's  turn  to  gasp.  He  turned  to 
Peloo,  saying  fretfully:  "Most  extraordinary 
chaps  in  this  part  of  the  world !" 

"You  fellers  goin'  to  camp  soon?"  the  stranger 
asked.  Then,  as  if  he  had  just  remembered  it: 
"My  name's  Baldy — that  isj  Archibald  Slack  in  any 
agreements  or  such  papers." 

He  looked  expectantly  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  three  men.  Peloo  cleared  his  voice  with  an 
apologetic  cough  and  said:  "Mr.  Red  Meekins, 


108  RED  MEEKINS 

my  name's  Peloo  Trout,  an'  this  gentleman  is  Mr. 
George  Cawthra  Sackville  St.  John,  of  London." 
Peloo  had  almost  forgotten  the  combination. 

Baldy  Slack  blinked  his  eyes  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  St.  John,  saying:  "Glad  to  meet  a  gentle- 
man from  London  in  these  parts,  Mr.  Jack  John- 
son. If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  fool  bear,  I  could've 
made  you  to  home  at  my  camp,  but  he  kinder  upset 
everything." 

"I  guess  we'd  best  camp  here,"  Red  advised. 

"If  you  don't  mind,"  Baldy  suggested,  "I'll  go 
back  an'  pick  up  some  things  I  shed  strippin'  down 
to  runnin'  weight.  There's  a  hat  an'  a  gun  an'  a 
coat  back  on  the  trail,  there,  that  might  come  in 
kind  of  useful  to  me.  I  won't  say  good-bye — I'm 
comin'  back." 

As  they  pitched  the  camp,  Peloo  remarked: 
"That  feller  must've  made  a  pretty  good  Marathon 
run,  after  all;  he's  been  gone  half  an  hour." 

But  presently  Baldy  returned,  carrying,  among 
other  belongings,  a  couple  of  rabbits.  He  threw 
them  to  Grasshead,  with  the  advice:  "Make  good 
ragout,  nichie."  He  turned  to  St.  John  and  added: 
"When  I  was  outrunnin'  that  bear,  back  there,  I 
stepped  on  'em  rabbits — they  couldn't  get  out  of 
the  way  fast  enough." 

As  they  sat  around  the  ragout  which  Grasshead 
served  in  the  frying  pan  in  which  it  had  been  cooked, 
Peloo  asked  Baldy  to  relate  the  incidents  of  the 
chase. 

"It  was  kind  of  my  fault,  to  begin  with,"  Baldy 


FOOL'S  GOLD  109 

asserted  magnanimously.  You  see,  these  darn 
woods  up  here  has  got  to  be  just  about  as  full  of 
people  as  Toronto  or  New  York — I  never  see  the 
like  of  what  it's  been  this  summer." 

"Oh,  I  say,  by  Jove!  You're  spoofing  us!"  St. 
John  objected. 

"Not  knowin'  what  spoofin'  is,  I  can't  say;  but 
folks  have  been  overrunnin'  this  section.  Just  see, 
here  I've  picked  up  you  three  fellers.  This  mornin' 
I  dashed  near  gets  plugged  with  lead  from  another 
tourist  that  somehow  got  detached  from  his  bear- 
in's." 

"How  d'you  account  for  the  rush — all  the  emi- 
grants pilin'  in?"  Peloo  queried  solemnly. 

Baldy  had  just  filled  his  mouth  liberally  with 
ragout,  but  he  managed  to  sputter:  "Gold!"  He 
nodded  the  complement  of  the  sentence,  masticating 
the  ragout  meantime.  "You're  lookin'  kiddy  inno- 
cent. Are  you  huntin'  for  a  little  mountain  of  gold 
that  has  wandered  off  into  this  swamp  somewheres 
an'  got  lost?"  he  added,  turning  to  St.  John. 

"I'm  deadly  anxiously  to  know  how  that  bear 
come  to  pursue  you,"  St.  John  answered. 

"I  was  comin'  to  that,"  Baldy  declared.  "I'd 
been  out  all  mornin';  guess  I'd  made  a  fifteen-mile 
traverse,  an'  after  I'd  chawed  grub  I  lay  down  in 
the  tent  to  rest.  First  thing  I  know,  I'm  waked 
up  by  somebody  outside  the  tent.  I  made  out  his 
back,  kind  of  shadowlike,  right  up  against  the  can- 
vas. I  was  kind  of  sleepy  an'  says:  'Come  in.' 
But  he  sits  there,  an'  he  seems  to  be  fingerin'  over 


110  RED  MEEKINS 

my  cache  of  grub.  I  gets  r'iled,  reaches  over  with 
my  foot,  an'  lifts  him  one  just  where  I  thought 
wouldn't  break  no  bones." 

"I  see,  it  was  the  bear,"  St.  John  cried  jubilantly. 

"That's  easy  pickin',  seein'  that  you  saw  the 
finish.  It  were  the  bear,  an'  kickin'  him  made  him 
mad.  I  heard  him  snort,  an'  grabbed  a  gun,  an', 
quicker'n  you  could  say  Mississauga,  the  tent  was 
snatched  to  one  side  an'  we  were  off.  I  beat  him 
to  the  start,  but  not  much.  I  was  just  gettin'  my 
second  wind  an'  runnin'  good  an'  free  when  I 
sighted  you  fellers.  I  brought  him  in,  didn't  I?" 

"Yes,  you  led  him  in,  right  'nough,"  Peloo 
agreed.  "He  mightn't've  found  us  if  you  hadn't 
done  the.guidinV 

"That  bein'  so,"  Baldly  said  reflectively,  "an  Mr. 
Meekins,  here,  makin'  the  kill,  we  ought  to  divide 
him  up — you  fellers  takin'  the  meat  an'  I  the  pelt. 
That's  my  line  of  business,  trappin'." 

"Travellin'  for  fur,  so  to  speak,"  Peloo  sug- 
gested. 

"You  was  speakin'  'bout  seein'  a  feller  this 
mornin',"  Meekins  said.  "Was  he  a  short,  stout 
old  man  with  gray  hair?" 

Baldy  cast  a  suspicious  look  at  Red,  muttering 
to  himself:  "I  guess  the  game  these  three  fellers 
play  best  is  spoofin'."  Aloud  he  answered :  "That's 
a  full  an'  complete  description  of  what  he  wasn't. 
He  was  kind  of  long,  a  banana-coloured  skin,  an' 
his  hair  was  a  deep  shade  of  blackin'." 

Red  shot  a  quick  glance  at  Peloo.     "You  didn't 


FOOL'S  GOLD  111 

know  who  he  was,  then?"  he  said,  addressing  Baldy. 

"No,  never  seen  him  before.  An'  I  guess  all 
this  bad  luck  with  the  bear  has  come  through 
meetin'  that  duck.  I  crost  Pigeon  River  Portage, 
an'  was  headin'  along  that  old  blazed  trail  when 
I  heard  a  sharp  whistle.  There  was  the  feller  I 
speak  of,  sittin'  on  a  log,  grinnin',  and  his  gun's 
one  eye  is  dead  on  me.  I  don't  pay  no  attention  to 
his  gun,  but  walks  right  up  to  him.  He  just  laughs; 
but,  say,  when  that  feller  laughs  it's  just  like  a 
cussin' — it  made  me  shiver.  He  wanted  some  .45*8 
from  me;  said  he'd  shot  his  'most  all  away.  My 
gun  was  a  .33,  an'  I  only  had  a  couple  of  shells  with 
me.  I  told  him  I  was  plumb  out,  or  I  guess  he'd 
held  me  up  for  the  gun." 

Peloo  looked  at  Red.  Red  nodded,  saying 
"That's  a  bit  of  luck  to  us." 

"Guess  I'll  skin  that  bear,"  Baldy  suggested. 
"You  can  have  the  meat,  an'  I'll  have  the  pelt,  eh?" 

"All  right.  You  was  bringin'  him  to  market 
when  I  shot  him,"  Red  answered. 

When  Slack  had  gone,  Peloo  asked:  "Do  you 
know  who  that  is?" 

"It's  the  man  had  the  race  with  the  bear,  Mr. 
Baldy  Slack." 

"That  ain't  too  funny,  Red.  Don't  you  know 
there's  two  Baldy  Slacks  in  this  north  country?" 

"Sure  I  do.  One  of  'em  is  called  'Loony  Baldy,' 
'cause  he's  nutty." 

"Which  one  is  this,  Red?  I'd  say  he  was  Loony 
Baldy,  the  way  he  talks." 


RED  MEEKINS 

"He  wasn't  so  danged  loony  when  it  come  to 
cuttin'  up  the  bear.  That  pelt's  worth  twenty  dol- 
lars, an'  bear  meat  is  tough  fodder." 

"Bear  fur  ain't  prime  yet;  it  ain't  worth  much. 
But  Loony  Baldy's  like  that;  you  can't  tell  at  first. 
Time  the  Hog  Lake  rush  was  on,  a  feller  comes  up 
from  New  York  an'  hires  him  to  take  him  in.  When 
they  was  goin'  through  some  rough  water,  Baldy 
starts  explainin'  he's  the  wise  Baldy,  an'  it's  the 
other  Baldy  is  loony.  He  gets  excited,  upsets  the 
canoe,  an'  New  York's  nearly  drowned." 

"He  ain't  got  much  on  us,  at  that;  when  I  get 
back  from  this  snake  trip  I'm  goin'  to  board  in  a 
asylum  to  straighten  up,"  Red  declared. 

After  supper,  a  pipe  inclined  Baldy  to  sociable- 
ness.  "What  do  you  say  to  that?"  he  asked,  hand- 
ing Meekins  a  specimen  that  was  two-thirds  gold 
imbedded  in  dull,  rusty  quartz.  "I  got  it  from  an 
Injun  named  Muskwa,"  Baldy  explained,  as  the 
nugget  was  passed  around. 

"Where  did  he  find  it?  Did  he  tell  you?"  Red 
asked  carelessly. 

A  cunning  look  gleamed  transiently  in  the  small, 
vulpine  eyes  set  so  close  to  the  thin-bridged  nose  in 
Baldy's  face.  "If  Muskwa  knowed  where  it  come 
from,  he  sure  would  tell  me;  an'  you,  comin'  along 
just  now  as  you  have,  I'd  sure  tell  you — I  guess 
not!"  And  Baldy  laughed  a  mocking  cackle. 

"Who's  loony  now — this  cuss  or  you  an'  me, 
Peloo?"  Red  asked,  when  their  new  friend  had 
moved  beyond  earshot. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  113 

"He's  got  me  guessin'.  But  our  old  friend 
Muskwa  bobs  up  again." 

"I  guess  Muskwa  found  that  gold  on  the  mur- 
dered man,"  Red  said  musingly. 

"Felix  was  there  first — he'd  take  it." 

"Not  Felix;  he's  too  foxy.  He'd  leave  the  gold 
to  make  it  look  like  an  accident.  He'd  got  all  the 
gold  he  could  pack,  too." 

As  they  sat  around  the  camp  fire,  Baldy,  who 
had  been  mentally  debating  what  business  the  cara- 
van was  on,  asked:  "Where  you  fellers  trailin'  to?" 

"This  is  an  English  member  of  Parliament,  from 
London,"  Peloo  answered  hurriedly.  "He's  goin' 
to  write  a  book  on  Canada,  an'  we're  showin'  him 
over  the  country." 

"Where  was  you  headin'  for  now?"  Baldy  queried 
suspiciously. 

"Tryin'  to  get  out,  mostly.  We  was  tryin'  to 
locate  a  lake  off  there  to  the  east."  And  Red 
pointed  in  the  direction  they  had  been  heading. 

"That  ain't  east;  that's  north,"  Baldy  objected. 

Meekins  took  out  his  compass,  and,  holding  it  in 
his  palm,  asked:  "What  d'you  say  now?" 

Baldy  looked  dubiously  at  the  quivering  needle 
that  hung  vibratingly  to  the  point  on  the  horizon 
he  would  have  called  west.  He  sat  down  on  a  log, 
and,  taking  off  his  cap,  ran  his  fingers  through  his 
long  hair.  It  was  certainly  puzzling.  Suddenly  he 
slapped  his  thigh,  jumped  up,  and  let  out  a  whoop  of 
joy  that  startled  even  Grasshead.  Then  he  sat  down 
on  the  log  again  and  laughed  till  the  woods  echoed. 


RED  MEEKINS 

"Which  Baldy  is  it  now?"  Peloo  whispered 
mockingly  to  Red. 

"You're  gettin'  a  lot  of  fun  out  of  somethin'," 
Red  said  angrily,  glaring  at  Baldy. 

"I  ain't  laughed  none  for  a  month;  let  us  in  on 
the  joke,"  Peloo  pleaded. 

Slack  stopped  his  hilarity  as  suddenly  as  he  had 
started  it,  and,  thrusting  an  arm  out  in  the  direction 
Meekins  had  called  east,  declared:  "That's  north; 
I  don't  need  no  instruments  to  find  direction.  Your 
compass  has  got  in  touch  with  the  Moose  Head; 
that's  what's  the  matter." 

"What's  the  Moose  Head?"  St.  John  asked, 
thoroughly  puzzled. 

"It's  a  mountain  of  iron  'bout  ten  miles  off  there, 
the  way  the  needle's  pointin'.  But  that's  west. 
You  fellers  ain't  the  first  lot  of  tenderfeet  I've 
picked  up  in  these  parts  that  old  Moose  Head  was 
playin'  the  fool  with.  There's  a  lake  called  Waho 
Heap  off  this  other  way — east." 

"Could  you  make  it  from  here?"  Red  asked. 

"Say,  if  it  was  staked  an'  a  two-inch  auger  hole 
through  the  stake,  I'd  walk  to  it  with  my  eyes  shut 
an'  slip  my  finger  through  that  hole  same's  it  was 
a  weddin'  ring." 

"You're  the  very  feller  we  want,"  Peloo  declared 
emphatically.  "There  ain't  nobody  in  this  party 
could  find  his  way  from  the  front  door  to  the  bar 
in  the  Nugget  Hotel." 

Baldy's  explanation  showed  that  Grasshead  had 
been  right  and  the  little  clock  wrong.  Under 


FOOL'S  GOLD  115 

stimulus  of  the  victory  over  Red,  Baldy  waxed 
loquacious.  St.  John's  penchant  for  asking  questions 
directed  Slack's  vocal  intent  toward  that  gentleman. 

"You  see,  Mister  John,"  Baldy  said  apologetical- 
ly, "bein'  alone  in  the  bush  an'  thinkin'  all  the  time, 
talk  kind  of  gets  bottled  up  in  me,  an'  I  froth  over 
like  beer  when  I  get  a  chance  at  somebody.  Fellers 
go  loony  from  bein'  alone  in  the  bush  for  months 
at  a  time,  an'  no  one  to  talk  to." 

"That's  a  true  bill,  Mr.  St.  John,"  Peloo  com- 
mented. "I've  known  some  myself." 

"I've  got  a  namesake,  Baldy  Slack,  that's  off. 
He  used  to  drive  a  lift  engine  in  a  mine,  an'  he 
thinks  a  nut's  worked  loose  on  a  bolt  in  his  head; 
he  can  hear  it  rattle." 

Baldy's  weird  chatter  irritated  Meekins.  To 
change  the  subject,  he  asked:  "Why  didn't  you 
locate  where  that  gold  come  from?" 

"It's  ha'nted.  I  wanted  Muskwa  to  help  find 
it,  but  he  didn't  dare  go  near  it.  It's  called  the 
Devil  Mine  by  the  Injuns;  there  won't  one  of  'em 
go  to  look  for  it,  even.  They  say  anybody  that  finds 
it  dies." 

"They  call  that  talk  bull  con  up  in  this  country," 
Red  said.  "I've  heard  that  lost-mine  story  ever 
since  I  heard  of  mines.  Gener'lly  the  feller  that 
knows  where  'tis  gets  a  wad  of  money  to  show  it 
an'  lights  out.  We'll  give  you  a  job  guidin'  us  to 
that  lake." 

"I'll  take  you  to  the  lake,"  Slack  agreed,  after  a 
pause,  "but  if  you're  gold  huntin'  you  can  follow 


116  RED  MEEKINS 

that  compass  from  there.  I  wouldn't  trust  my  own 
brother  when  it  comes  to  findin'  a  big  cache  of  gold 
— it  turns  a  man  into  a  devil." 

As  they  turned  in  for  the  night,  Peloo  pointed 
to  One  Wolf,  who  was  curled  up,  his  nose  covered 
by  his  bushy  tail,  and  said:  "He  knows  Felix  is 
'way  off  somewhere  an'  ain't  snoopin'  round  to  pot 
somebody.  I  guess  Felix  has  beat  it  for  the  mine, 
an'  we're  gettin'  close." 

CHAPTER  XII 

Evidently,  Felix  had  moved  on,  for  the  night 
was  quiet — that  is,  up  to  about  dawn.  Then  One 
Wolf,  as  if  feeling  that  he  had  neglected  his  ac- 
cepted mission  of  keeping  his  friends  on  the  qui 
vive,  began  a  restless  prowl,  given  variety  by  canine 
notes  of  dissatisfaction.  He  did  not  show  the  same 
spasmodic  ebullitions  of  alternate  fear  and  rage 
as  he  had  when  Felix  was  about;  instead  he  seemed 
agitated  by  a  sense  of  some  unknown  danger. 

Meekins,  who  had  been  awakened  by  the  dog, 
was  growling  about  it  at  breakfast. 

"It  was  too  monotonous  in  the  night,"  Peloo  de- 
clared perversely.  "I've  got  so  on  this  trip  I  don't 
sleep  good  less  there's  a  racket  on." 

"Wonder,  rather,  what  the  dog  was  troubled 
over,"  St.  John  remarked. 

"Anybody  that  ever  saw  a  dozen  trees  ought  to 
know,"  Baldy  answered.  "See  that,  you  fellers?" 
and  he  pointed  his  knife  to  the  sky  that  held  a 


FOOL'S  GOLD  117 

sudden  red  haze.  "The  bush  is  afire,  an'  my  advice 
is  you  fellers  best  beat  it  for  some  nice  place  where 
the  daily  papers'll  tell  you  'bout  what  happened. 
Anybody  that  gets  ketched  in  this  bush  is  goin'  to 
frizzle  up." 

"There  ain't  no  hurry,"  Peloo  protested.  "That 
fire's  a  long  ways  off.  I  see  the  sky  like  that  for 
a  month  once  when  the  big  fire  was  in  Michigan 
hundreds  of  miles  away." 

"Did  you  pick  up  signs  like  this  that  time?" 
Baldy  asked,  holding  in  his  hand  a  gossamer-black 
skeleton  of  a  burned  leaf.  "It's  snowin'  these 
to-day,  an'  you  didn't  see  a  bird  around  for  two 
days;  they  know." 

"Well,  let's  head  for  that  lake;  it  ain't  on  fire, 
is  it?"  Red  asked  crossly. 

They  broke  camp,  and  as  they  streamed  over  the 
ridge  along  which  Baldy  had  raced  the  day  before 
they  came  to  his  camp.  Slack,  who  was  in  the  lead, 
stopped  where  his  tent  lay  in  a  crumpled  heap.  "I 
guess  I  got  to  cache  a  few  things,  boys,  if  you  don't 
mind  waitin'.  Guess  I'll  kiss  'em  good-bye,  too," 
he  added,  with  a  look  at  the  sky. 

Peloo  slipped  his  pack  and  took  out  his  pipe.  A 
nice  round  knoll,  with  a  particularly  heavy  cushion 
of  leaves,  suggested  a  seat.  Peloo  accepted  the 
luxury,  only  to  give  vent  to  a  fearful  yell  and  claw 
at  the  earth  in  a  vain  attempt  to  rise.  Meekins, 
thinking  that  Peloo  was  kidding  Baldy  over  the 
bear  incident,  laughed.  His  mirth  was  checked  by 


118  RED  MEEKINS 

Peloo.  "Come  here,  you  danged  red-headed  fool, 
an'  help  me  out;  I'm  caught!" 

Baldy  emerged  from  his  tent,  and  With  one 
glance  at  Trout  darted  forward  and  yanked  him 
to  his  feet.  Then  the  cause  of  that  gentleman's 
outcry  was  patent.  Clinging  pertinaciously  to  his 
form  was  a  huge  bear  trap,  both  jaws  locked  firmly 
over  his  hips.  Luckily  his  width  of  beam  had  not 
allowed  the  trap  much  of  a  start  on  its  vicious  snap, 
so  beyond  two  lines  of  punctures,  much  as  though 
an  alligator  had  bitten  him,  Peloo  was  none  the 
worse  for  his  experience. 

"Now  I  got  to  go  an'  set  that  trap  all  over 
again,"  Baldy  was  growling  after  it  had  been  de- 
tached from  Peloo. 

The  latter,  walking  about  in  a  short  circle  and 
rubbing  his  quarters,  retorted  petulantly:  "Why 
didn't  you  say  there  was  traps  set  about  here?" 

"Guess  I'd  ought  to  have  notices  posted  upon 
the  trees  round,  sayin'  'Trespassers  will  be  perse- 
cuted. Beware  of  traps !' ' 

"Well,  get  a  move  on,  an'  you  go  first!"  Peloo 
commanded  crossly. 

That  was  a  day  of  monotony.  Earth  took  on 
the  dead  aspect  of  an  object  seen  through  smoked 
glass.  Back  somewhere  the  forest  fire  had  sucked 
the  air  into  a  vacuum,  had  burned  the  life  out  of  it; 
it  parched  the  gold  seekers'  lungs  as  though  ex- 
hausted of  oxygen.  It  was  viscous  of  texture,  sug- 
gesting a  body  of  deep  fog.  Perspiration  streamed 
from  their  skins.  Even  Peloo's  jocund  humour  had 


FOOL'S  GOLD  119 

ceased  to  enliven  their  way.  Meekins  plodded, 
plodded  with  sulky  indifference.  Baldy,  possessed 
of  that  curious  sense  of  enjoyment  which,  vampire- 
like,  nourishes  upon  the  mental  distress  of  others, 
harped  monotonously  upon  the  terrors  of  the  fire 
that  was  licking  up  with  its  tongue  of  flame  the 
northern  forest. 

St.  John  felt  the  depressing  forecast  of  disaster 
more  than  the  others;  it  irritated  him.  Once,  as 
he  and  Peloo  rested  as  they  lighted  their  pipes,  he 
said:  "Some  way,  since  we've  shouldered  our  gar- 
rulous friend,  Baldy,  I  feel  like  Sinbad  the  Sailor, 
don't  you?" 

"It's  a  good  many  years  since  I  sailorized  on  the 
lakes,"  Peloo  answered;  "a  good  many  years.  I 
knowed  most  of  the  sailors  then;  he  might' ve  been 
since  my  time." 

The  Englishman  opened  his  mouth,  on  the  point 
of  laughing,  but  checked  himself  with  the  heroic 
thrust  of  a -finger  into  the  hot  bowl  of  his  pipe, 
burning  it,  which  brought  forth  a  growl  of  pain. 

Then  with  the  silent  monotony  which  had  be- 
come habitual  they  slipped  into  the  harness  of  their 
packs  and  went  forward  through  long  hallways  that 
stretched,  in  the  computing  of  tired  minds,  for  miles 
and  miles  between  walls  of  spruce  and  pine  that  held 
the  heavy  hush  of  catacombs.  No  bird  notes  lilted. 

St.  John,  struck  by  the  vocal  vacuity,  harked  back 
in  memory  to  that  small  forest  on  the  Duke  of 
Richmond's  estate  wherein  no  bird  ever  wings. 


120  RED  MEEKINS 

"They  know!"  Baldy  croaked,  as  they  sat  around 
the  camp  fire  at  noon. 

"Who  knows  what?"  Peloo  asked. 

"He  was  sayin'  back  there" — Baldy  thrust  his 
thumb  toward  St.  John — "that  there  wasn't  no 
birds." 

"You  took  a  devil  of  a  time  to  think  it  out," 
Peloo  retorted  sneeringly. 

"When  I'm  trailin'  with  my  eyes  on  a  blind  trail 
I  ain'  got  no  time  to  give  the  life  hist'ry  of  the 
animals,"  Baldy  growled.  "An'  I'm  sayin'  now  for 
the  gentleman's  information  that  the  birds  knows 
that  the  fire  is  ketchin'  up,  an'  they've  flew  their 
kite." 

"Cut  it  out!"  Meekins  snapped. 

"Yes,  really,"  St.  John  added,  "we  ought  to  chirk 
up  a  bit,  I  think,  and  talk  of  something  agreeable." 

The  fatigue,  the  strain,  the  procrastinated  result 
was  putting  a  wire  edge  on  their  nerves. 

"You're  right,  mister,"  Peloo  confirmed.  "Once 
when  I  was  out  in  the  Cariboo  gold  field,  an'  the 
bed  slats  fell  out,  lettin'  the  camp  fall  so  hard  it 
bust  the  boom,  six  of  us  started  on  the  hoof  express 
for  Peace  River.  Well,  we  gets  snowed  in,  we 
was  put  down  for  the  winter,  same's  jam.  We 
builds  a  shack.  We  had  guns,  considerable  provi- 
sions, an'  game  was  as  easy  as  the  public  in  boom 
time.  We're  all  as  friendly  as  'em  little  huggin' 
monkeys  you  see  in  a  circus  till  Bad-luck  Davis — 
that's  what  he  was  nicknamed  right  enough — shoots 
an  animal  'bout  the  size  of  two  tomcats,  an  'nails 


FOOL'S  GOLD 

the  hide  on  the  side  of  the  shack.  None  of  us 
fellers  had  ever  seen  that  kind  of  a  critter  before. 
One  of  'em  says  it's  a  ground  hog;  another  says  it's 
a  little  kind  of  bear;  McGinnis  claimed  it  was  an 
otter;  McLeod  names  it  for  a  lynx;  an'  so  they  go 
on — there  was  six  kind  of  animal  'mongst  the  six  of 
us.  We  argies  an'  disputes,  an'  gets  mad  over  it — 
danged  near  fights;  an'  first  thing  we  knowed 
nobody  was  speakin'  to  nobody  else.  The  one 
what's  cookin'  would  dump  the  grub  on  the  table, 
an'  no  fear  he'd  say,  'Gentlemen,  will  you  please 
oblige  by  takin'  your  seats  at  the  banket?'  No  fear  I 
He'd  just  grunt — that's  what  he'd  do.  We  was 
sleepin'  doubled  up  in  three  bunks,  an'  the  fellers 
slept  back  to  back.  Holy  Moses !  I  used  to  go  off 
into  the  bush  an'  talk  to  an  owl  or  anythin',  fear  I'd 
get  tongue-tied.  One  day  an  Injun  come  along. 
We  all  made  a  rush  for  him,  lugged  him  round  to 
where  the  skin  was  stuck  up,  an'  asked  him  what 
it  was." 

Peloo  put  a  coal  to  his  pipe.  St.  John,  who  had 
waxed  eager,  cried:  "What  was  it,  Trout?  Who 
won?" 

"Nobody.  The  Injun  said  it  was  a  carcajou* 
That  was  a  new  one  on  us.  We  found  out  he  meant 
wolverine,  but  nobody  called  it  that — we  never  seen 
a  wolverine.  It  was  such  a  sell  on  the  fellers  we 
just  laughed.  That  settled  the  row." 

"Look  here,  Trout,  it  strikes  me  you're  no  end 
of  a  philosopher,"  the  Englishman  said  appre- 
ciately  in  a  low  tone. 


122  RED  MEEKINS 

Peloo's  rather  longish  story,  related  in  the  most 
noble  spirit  of  conciliatory  warning,  was  like  the 
seed  that  fell  upon  stony  places.  Baldy  spat  con- 
temptuously into  the  fire  and  sneered:  "You 
must've  been  a  lot  of  greenhorns  not  to  know  a 
wolverine  from  a  ground  hog.  It's  fellers  like 
that  gets  lost  in  the  bush." 

Meekins  slipped  into  his  pack  and  started.  Peloo 
stretched  his  long  stride  till  he  was  at  the  latter's 
side.  "That  cuss  makes  me  cross,"  he  commanded. 

"You  hadn'  ought  to  take  no  notice  of  a  feller 
that's  loony,"  Red  reproached. 

"He  ain't  loony;  he's  the  other  Baldy." 

"You've  been  arguyin'  that  he's  the  loony  one," 
Red  contended  irritably. 

"You  was  the  one  said  this  was  the  loony  Baldy," 
Peloo  said,  with  sharp  reproof. 

The  mental  disease  broke  out  again.  They  went 
ploughing  along,  wrangling  over  this,  till  Peloo 
said:  "Danged  if  I  know  which  one  of  us  said  he 
was  the  loony  Baldy,  an'  I  don't  care.  He  ain't 
the  loony  Baldy;  he's  just  a  cussed  danged  fool!" 

St.  John's  brain,  inflamed  by  the  scalding  contact 
of  superheated  blood,  revolved  peripatetically 
around  a  myriad  of  subjects.  He  caught  himself 
talking  rot  as  if  he  had  fever. 

Toward  evening  they  travelled  into  a  graveyard 
of  dead  trees  that  stood  draped  in  black.  Some 
former  fire  had  sapped  their  life,  had  scorched  the 
cuticle  of  bark  until  the  sap  no  longer  raced  to  the 
breathing  leaves. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  • 

"The  Valley  of  Achor!  The  Valley  of  Achorl" 
St.  John  repeated  a  dozen  times.  Sometimes  a 
small  log  hidden  with  a  covering  of  moss  and  dead 
grass  would  catch  his  feet  and  he  would  reel  drunk- 
enly,  even  fall;  sometimes  he  laughed  idiotically; 
sometimes  he  cursed.  But  always  there  were  the 
unsympathetic  backs  slipping  away  from  him,  their 
unchecked  progress  insisting  that  he  make  up  the 
lost  ground. 

Once  Peloo  took  a  hurried,  backward  glance; 
then  quickening  his  pace,  he  drew  close  to  Meekins, 
saying:  "You  keep  close  to  that  loony  feller  with 
the  baby's  rattle  on  the  end  of  his  neck,  Red;  he  may 
try  to  jump  the  job.  I'll  trail  behind  the  lord 
mayor  of  London — dash  him,  he's  'bout  as  near 
bushed  as  I  ever  see  a  man." 

"Yes,"  Meekins  answered,  "if  he  was  to  fall,  an' 
we  didn't  notice  it,  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  his 
chances.  Back  there  where  we  come  through  the 
marsh  I  see  the  pugs  of  a  bear,  an'  he  was  travellin' 
free;  he'd  seen  somethin'." 

"P'r'aps  we  started  him  up." 

"No,  he'd  been  comin'  toward  us,  side-wheel 
pacin'  like  a  two-minute  horse." 

Peloo  turned,  growling:  "Danged  if  I  wouldn't 
like  to  see  that  cuss  that's  ha'ntin'  our  trail  just 
once.  Talkin'  of  seein'  things,  Red,  can  you  make 
out  anythin'  of  a  wanderin'  Willie  back  there  in  the 
forest  glades?" 

Peloo  was  searching  their  back  trail,  a  puzzled 
expression  on  his  grimy  face.  After  a  moment  of 


RED  MEEKINS 

scrutiny  he  dumped  his  pack  irritably,  growling: 
"Gol-dang  'em  foreigners,  anyway!" 

There  was  a  note  of  alarm  in  the  voice  of  Meek- 
ins  as  he  said  quickly:  "We  best  get  back  on  the 
lope,  Peloo." 

With  difficulty  Meekins  kept  pace  with  the  long- 
legged  Peloo,  who  was  muttering:  "We  ought  to 
get  the  medal  for  savin'  life  the  way  we're  takin' 
care  of  this  cuss.  What  you  got,  Red?"  His  voice 
had  whispered  the  query,  for  Meekins  had  clutched 
his  arm  and  was  staring  off  among  the  cedars. 

"Somethin'  flitted.  It  may've  been  a  wolf  or 
some  critter.  Come  on,  Peloo,  let's  get  along;  I 
don't  like  this." 

The  next  instant,  as  Peloo  pushed  through  a 
tangle  of  stunted  birch,  his  foot  struck  something 
that  had  the  unmistakable  yield  of  flesh.  One  look, 
and  he  cried  aghast:  "Somethin's  happened  En- 
glish!" 

Meekins  dropped  to  his  knees  and  put  his  arm 
under  the  body  of  St.  John;  then  sitting,  he  lifted 
him  into  his  lap.  "Poor  old  chap !"  he  said  brok- 
enly. "I'm  afeared  they've  got  him." 

"Just  tuckered  out,  ain't  it?  He's  just  dropped 
off.  He'll  be  all  right,  Red."  Peloo  was  talking 
against  fear. 

"He  ain't  just  tuckered  out;  people  don't  get 
blue  under  the  gills  an'  go  so  far  out  that  they  don't 
have  to  breathe  when  they're  just  tired." 

"Oh,  he  ain't  dead;  don't  say  that,  old  man. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  125 

There  wouldn't  nobody  do  him  up.  Can't  be ;  there 
ain't  no  blood." 

Peloo  in  his  intense  sympathy,  childish  in  its 
words,  was  fanning  St.  John's  face  with  his  wide- 
brimmed  hat.  "Give  him  somethin',  Red;  ain't 
you  got  nothin'?" 

"His  heart's  still  on  the  job,"  Meekins  said,  after 
he  had  run  his  hand  under  St.  John's  shirt.  "There 
ain't  no  sign  of  a  cut,  and  it  couldn't  be  a  shot; 
we'd  heard  it." 

Meekins  was  examining  minutely  the  English- 
man's torso  and  head.  On  the  neck  he  found  some- 
thing, and  with  a  muttered  curse  of  astonished 
anger  said:  "Here,  Peloo,  hold  him;  rub  his  side." 
Then  he  searched  the  ground  within  a  radius  of  ten 
feet,  even  feeling  in  the  carpet  of  dead  leaves  for 
something.  Suddenly,  with  an  exclamation,  he  held 
out  for  Peloo's  inspection  a  slim,  blunt-headed 
arrow.  "That's  what  he  got — right  there,"  and 
Meekins  laid  his  finger  on  a  red  blotch  just  behind 
St.  John's  ear. 

"By  the  horn-swaggled  owl,  if  that  ain't  Injun 
work!  He  wouldn't  take  a  shot.  He  got  that  bow 
in  Squabo's  canoe.  I  guess  we  was  just  in  time. 
Poor  old  chap !  Say,  Red,  he's  gettin'  back.  Come 
on,  old  man;  you  can't  come  too  fast." 

They  could  hear  St.  John  breathing  now,  a  rouge 
was  chasing  the  blue-gray  pallor  from  his  face. 

"I'd  give  up  my  diamonds,  for  a  hooker  of 
whisky  for  the  old  cuss,"  Peloo  said;  then  he 
laughed,  as  a  woman  might,  in  hysterical  weakness 


126  RED  MEEKINS 

after  a  strain.  "You  danged  old  Johnnie  Bull, 
you're  as  good  as  half  a  dozen  dead  men  yet.  We 
was  just  in  time,  old  sport." 

The  gothic-structured  Trout  cuddled  the  uncon- 
scious man  across  his  gorilla  chest. 

"Best  set  him  agen  the  log  there,  Peloo,"  Red 
advised.  "He'll  think  it's  one  of  your  dang-fool 
tricks  if  he  wakes  up  an'  finds  himself  in  your  lap." 

"Eh,  God  bless  me,  gentlemen — by  Jove!"  It 
was  St.  John  mentally  reeling  back  to  their  company. 

"How're  you  feelin',  mister?"  Peloo  asked. 

"Groggy.  I  don't  know  what  happened;  I  went 
down  like  a  shot." 

As  Peloo  turned  to  pick  up  St.  John's  pack  he 
growled  out  an  oath.  It  had  been  opened.  He 
thrust  in  his  hand;  then  quickly  tying  the  tumpline 
about  the  pack,  swung  it  to  his  shoulder. 

When  they  had  recovered  their  packs,  and  the 
impatient,  growling  Baldy  having  been  given  the 
word,  the  caravan  proceeded.  With  all  appeal  to 
finer  sentiment  removed,  Peloo  slipped  to  the  other 
extreme  of  petulant  intolerance.  "What's  the  idee, 
Red;  ain't  we  to  tell  his  highness  about  the  arrow?" 

"No." 

"What'll  he  say  when  he  finds  out  somebody 
sneaked  the  dynamite  out  his  pack?" 

"What!  Did  that  devil  get  the  powder?  What's 
he  goin'  to  do  with  it?" 

"P'r'aps  he  was  lookin'  for  the  whisky  an'  just 
took  the  stuff  for  deviltry,  thinkin'  it  would  bother 


us." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  127 

"I  give  up  guessin'  what  that  breed's  up  to  about 
anything;  we'll  tell  English  the  dynamite  slipped 
out  when  he  fell." 

After  a  season  of  quiet,  Peloo  asked  querulously : 
"Are  we  goin'  to  plug  along  all  night?  Where's 
that  lake?  It  seems  to  be  travellin'  as  fast  as  we 
are." 

"It's  afraid  of  a  noise,"  Baldy  sneered;  "only 
way  to  trap  that  lake  is  to  talk  less  an'  walk  more." 

CHAPTER  XIII 

In  half  an  hour  the  dark  interior  of  the  wood  was 
broken  by  a  glint  of  cold,  greenish  light,  as  though 
a  huge  mirror,  lying  face  up,  reflected  the  day's 
dying  pallor.  A  rank  odor,  acrid,  nauseating,  filled 
their  nostrils. 

"Bitter  Lake,"  Peloo  advised.  "It's  got  a  breath 
like  a  pot  of  sour  beans." 

"It's  filled  with  champagne !"  St.  John  declared, 
feeling  the  relief  of  escaping  from  the  woods. 

"It's  most  like  a  tub  of  stale  beer;  I'd  rather  sleep 
in  a  vacant  lot,"  Peloo  growled  as  they  came  to  the 
water's  edge. 

Slack  slung  his  pack  against  the  roots  of  a  giant 
spruce  with  a  full  flavor  of  resentment.  Sullenly 
silent,  he  took  an  axe,  felled  a  dead  birch,  and  built 
a  camp  fire.  His  moodiness  seemed  to  affect  the 
others;  there  was  that  vibrant  irritation  produced 
by  the  impact  of  unpleasant  episodes  in  the  mind 
of  each  man. 


128  RED  MEEKINS 

Meekins  drew  from  a  bag  a  bear  ham,  and  auto- 
matically cut  slices  of  its  strongly-flavoured  meat, 
which  he  dropped  dejectedly  into  the  frying  pan. 
Peloo  had  found  a  little  higher  reach  of  sand  just 
to  one  side,  and  here  he  abstractedly  spread  their 
blankets. 

St.  John,  his  tired  spirits  blanketed  by  the  morose 
sullenness  of  the  others,  sat  on  a  log  and  watched 
the  preparation  for  the  night  in  dejected  indiffer- 
ence. A  dozen  times  he  almost  followed  the  lead 
of  his  drooping  head  in  a  sleepy  pitch  to  earth.  Out 
of  wonderland  eyes  he  saw  Grasshead,  looking 
abnormally  like  some  goblin  in  the  firelight,  come 
forward,  a  stack  of  tin  plates  in  his  hand,  and  one 
by  one  deal  them  toward  the  men  as  if  he  were 
trying  to  disembowel  them  with  the  throw  of  a 
discus.  One  Wolf  sat  across  the  fire,  its  light 
glazing  his  eyes,  now  green,  now  blood  red,  now 
gray  translucent,  like  moonstones.  The  Dore-like 
morbidness  of  his  environment  caused  St.  John  to 
exclaim:  "We  ought  to  have  the  walrus  here." 

Peloo  drew  the  back  of  his  hand  across  his  mouth 
and  growled:  "A  man  that  wouldn't  find  dog-bear 
meat  rank  enough,  but  wanted  walrus,  must  have 
a  pickled  palate." 

"I  meant  like  the  ship's  carpenter,  don't  you 
know,  where  he  said  to  the  walrus:  'It's  time  to 
talk  of  many  things,'  "  St.  John  explained. 

Peloo  looked  at  the  speaker;  then,  taking  his 
plate,  sat  down;  his  movement  was  a  direct  rebuke. 
To  Meekins,  at  his  shoulder,  he  said  under  his 


FOOL'S  GOLD  129 

breath:  "Why  in  blazes  does  fellers  want  to  go 
fuzzy  in  the  nut  just  'cause  they're  tired?  An'  there 
ain't  been  no  sun  to-day,  neither." 

Slack,  hearing  the  latter  part  of  the  observation, 
sneered:  "You  don't  expect  to  see  the  sun  when 
the  sky  is  full  of  smoke,  do  you?" 

Peloo's  retort  was  one  of  unexpressed  contempt; 
he  spat  in  the  fire  and  blew  his  nose.  This  irritated 
Baldy.  He  was  possessed  of  a  nasty  desire  to  vent 
his  spleen  with  primal  revoltiveness.  He  thrust  a 
grimy  hand  that  carried  a  fork  across  the  person 
of  St.  John,  jabbed  viciously  into  the  frying  pan, 
retrieved  a  morsel  of  meat,  and  drew  it  back  with 
tantalizing  deliberateness  across  the  latter's  legs, 
leaving  little  streamlets  of  grease  to  mark  its  pas- 
sage. 

"Oh,  by  Jove !  I  say,  do  be  careful,  sir,"  the 
latter  remonstrated.  This  drew  from  the  offender 
a  grunt  that  ramified  in  the  realm  of  insolence.  The 
success  of  this  exploit  appealed  to  Baldy's  debased 
sense  of  humor.  He  presently  impaled  a  piece  of 
bannock  and  explored  the  fry  pan  with  this  ob- 
sorbent.  The  return  journey  was  once  more  dis- 
tressingly repulsive  to  St.  John,  who  again  objected. 

Peloo  reproved  Slack  with  less  courtesy  of  speech, 
only  to  draw  from  the  latter  a  limpid  stream  of 
blasphemy.  Peloo  put  his  plate  down,  saying:  "I'm 
goin'  to  kick  that  scrubwoman  into  the  lake." 

But  Meekins  nudged  him  in  the  ribs,  and  directed 
his  attention  to  St.  John,  who  was  saying:  "There 


130  RED  MEEKINS 

has  been  a  curious  development  in  profanity  in 
England." 

Baldy  ceased  to  swear,  and  turned  his  eyes  sus- 
piciously on  the  speaker,  who  continued:  "There 
was  a  time  when  only  the  serfs  used  oaths;  then 
later  on  the  serfs  and  the  gentry  swore;  then  came 
another  change,  only  the  gentlemen  swearing.  Now 
no  gentleman  uses  profane  language." 

Baldy's  lower  jaw  had  gradually  fallen  away 
from  the  upper;  his  beady  eyes  had  passed  in  transi- 
tion from  a  look  of  incomprehension  to  one  of 
sullen  anger. 

Peloo  slapped  his  thigh  and  laughed:  "Ha-ha-ha, 
haw-haw!" 

There  was  a  vicious  suppression  in  Slack's  voice 
as  he  asked:  "Meanin'  me,  eh?  That  I  ain't  no 
gentleman  because  I  can  pack  more  than  enough 
to  make  a  bed  for  a  cat?  Because  I  ain't  a  pot- 
bellied cockney." 

"Hold  on  there,  Baldy!"  Peloo  commanded,  his 
long  body  rising  like  a  tower  of  restraint. 

"You  mind  your  own  bus'ness,"  Slack  retorted, 
springing  to  his  feet.  "I'll  learn  this  cockney  to 
tell  me  that  I  ain't  no  gentleman." 

"Quite  right,"  St.  John  commented,  rising  and 
stepping  to  where  the  ground  was  more  level.  "This 
concerns  me,  I  mean,"  he  said  apologetically  to 
Trout.  "And  now,  Mr.  Slack,  if  you'll  be  good 
enough  to  apologize  for  your  beastly  expressions 
we'll  say  no  more  about  it." 

"Apologize?"     It  was  really  a  derisive  shout. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  131 

Decorous  preliminaries  were  eliminated.  Either 
enraged  haste  or  a  quick  snap  of  treachery  guided 
Baldy,  for  the  next  instant,  his  long  arm  swishing 
through  the  air  like  a  flail,  he  hurtled  at  the 
Englishman. 

The  unexpected  happened.  A  compact  bunch  of 
fives  was  successively  launched  with  fortunate  pre- 
cision, and  Baldy  lurched  diagonally,  overbalanced, 
and  went  down. 

When  he  rose  Peloo  and  Red  had  a  hand  on  each 
shoulder,  and  Peloo  was  saying:  "It's  just  good 
to  be  alive  to-night,  Baldy,  an'  see  what  we've  seen, 
an'  if  you're  still  disgusted  with  the  quiet  life  an 
won't  promise  to  behave,  we're  goin'  to  keelhaul 
you  out  there  in  that  bowl  of  slop  to  cool  you  off." 

"What  d'you  say?"  Red  queried,  and  gave 
Baldy's  shoulder  a  yank. 

Slack  took  out  his  pipe  and  filled  it,  preserving  a 
gloomy  silence.  He  lighted  it,  walked  down  to  the 
edge  of  the  water,  and  stood  there  smoking  and 
eyeing  the  heavy,  sombre  sky. 

St.  John  was  lying  down  on  the  blankets,  and 
Peloo,  intoning  his  voice  to  leap  just  the  intervening 
distance  between  him  and  Meekins,  was  saying: 
"It's  just  as  I  said,  Red;  Johnny  Bull'd  be  all  right 
if  it  wasn't  for  his  dang-fool  way  of  speakin' 
English.  You  see,  it  took  him  so  long  to  get  that 
out  that  Baldy  had  time  to  get  mad.  If  he'd  spit 
it  out  all  at  once — told  Baldy  he  was  an  uncurried 
horse  from  the  backwoods — there  wouldn't've  been 
nothin'  to  it." 


RED  MEEKINS 

"We  ain't  got  no  kick  comin',  Peloo.  Baldy  got 
what  was  comin'  to  him." 

But  the  miraculous  efficiency  of  St.  John's  punch 
had  astounded  Peloo;  he  wanted  to  know  how  it 
had  been  possible.  He  crossed  over  to  the  English- 
man, and,  taking  that  surprised  gentleman's  arm 
in  his  big  hands,  appraised  the  biceps,  saying:  "That 
biff  on  Baldy's  soundin'  board  was  some  beaut,  mis- 
ter; how  d'you  learn  that  trick." 

"As  a  boy  I  had  as  tutor  an  old  navy  officer, 
and  as  boxing  was  the  only  thing  he  knew  thor- 
oughly, I  had  to  learn  it.  Later,  at  school,  I  fagged 
for  Lord  Blossom,  and  he  was  no  end  of  a  boxer — 
champion  for  two  years  at  Oxford.  A  chap  never 
forgets  to  put  up  his  mauleys  once  he's  learned  the 
game." 

Presently,  Slack  returned  to  the  fire,  saying: 
"I've  brought  you  to  the  lake;  my  contract's  up,  so 
I'm  goin'  to  pull  my  freight.  I  want  my  pay." 

St.  John  jumped  up,  and,  giving  Baldy  his  money, 
said:  "Don't  go  off  into  the  woods  at  night — 
deuced  foolish.  Forget  our  dispute  and  make  your- 
self comfortable  by  the  fire.  We'll  have  ducks  for 
breakfast;  must  be  some  out  on  that  lake." 

"I  got  a  raw  deal,  but  it  ain't  that.  Nobody  but 
a  dang  fool  would  camp  on  Waho  Lake.  You  talk 
about  ducks;  nobody  ain't  never  see  a  duck  nor  any 
other  livin'  critter  on  that  lake.  Nobody  ain't  never 
see  a  moose  come  to  it,  nor  a  beaver,  nor  a  muskrat, 
nor  an  otter.  There  ain't  even  a  polliwog  in  it, 
'cause  it's  ha'nted ;  that's  why.  The  loup-garou,  the 


FOOL'S  GOLD  133 

devils  in  the  flyin'  canoe,  goes  over  its  waters." 

Grasshead's  Indian  eyes,  the  piercing  black  pupils 
bordered  by  a  red-and-yellow  crisscross,  were  fixed 
on  the  speaker.  He  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  in 
quick  subtlety,  and  crept  a  little  nearer  the  fire. 

Slack  continued:  "The  wolves  that  howl  on  its 
banks  are  not  flesh-an'-blood  wolves;  they're  the 
devil  wolf.  A  bullet'll  go  through  'em  like  a  bank 
of  fog,  but  they  can  pull  a  man  or  a  moose  down  just 
as  if  they  was  alive.  You'll  hear  'em  to-night.  I 
wouldn't  take  all  the  gold  that's  in  the  lost  mine  an' 
go  through  it.  P'r'aps  you'll  see  the  man  of  Waho 
Heap." 

The  three  men  gazed  at  Baldy  in  astonishment. 
The  queer,  weird  tale  of  the  haunted  lake  that  he 
had  no  doubt  heard  many  times  seemed  to  have 
touched  his  eccentrically  balanced  mind. 

"You'd  best  camp  here,  Baldy,"  Meekins  advised. 

But  Slack  packed  his  blanket  and  some  bacon 
and  bannock,  and  strode  away  into  the  forest,  de- 
claring that  he  had  a  good  camping  place  a  few 
miles  out  on  his  line  of  traps. 

"What  do  the  Indians  say  is  the  story'of  the  lost 
mine,  Grasshead?"  St.  John  asked. 

But  it  took  much  diplomatic  endeavour  to  get  the 
Indian  to  talk.  It  was  a  fanciful  tale.  Grasshead 
had  heard  it  from  his  father,  Standing  Shot,  who 
had  had  it  from  his  father.  The  legend  ran  that 
some  priests  had  found  the  mine,  and  were  getting 
much  gold  from  it.  But  the  Indian  chief  of  that 
part  was  a  pagan  Indian,  and  he  was  afraid  that 


134  RED  MEEKINS 

the  gold  would  bring  many  of  the  gray-eyed  people 
(whites),  so  he  killed  the  priests  and  all  their  men 
and  hid  the  bodies  in  the  cave  where  the  gold  came 
from.  There  was  a  spring  of  water  which  flowed 
from  the  cave,  and  the  dead  bodies  poisoned  this, 
and,  the  Indians  drinking  it,  got  a  strange  illness 
that  killed  them. 

Grasshead  told  the  story  with  a  dramatic  retro- 
spectiveness,  the  firelight  playing  fitfully  upon  his 
red-bronze  face.  As  he  finished,  the  trembling  wail 
of  a  wolf  across  the  lake  broke  the  forest  hush;  the 
cry  was  echoed  in  an  answer  from  another  wolf. 

"I  guess  the  wild  dogs  have  winded  Baldy,"  Peloo 
said. 

"Have  any  Indians  found  that  mine?"  St.  John 
queried. 

"No  Injun  won't  come  by  trail  that  goes  Waho 
Heap — bad  medicine." 

Meekins  was  studying  the  trail  map.  "We  got 
to  pick  up  that  little  stream  that  runs  into  this  lake 
to-morrow  mornin'.  Follerin'  it  we  come  to  the 
place  we  see  the  big  lone  pine  on  the  rocks." 

"I'm  glad  Baldy  won't  be  there,"  Peloo  declared. 
"One  minute  I'd  bet  my  right  eye  against  your 
little  toe  he  was  the  loony  Baldy,  an'  the  next  I 
think  he's  just  playin'  off.  I  don't  never  want  to 
see  him  no  more." 

As  Peloo  uttered  this  heart's  desire  they  were 
startled  by  the  attesting  sounds  of  something  speed- 
ing through  the  forest  in  their  direction.  Meekins 
sprang  to  his  feet,  rifle  in  hand. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  135 

"I  wouldn't  bother,  Red,"  Peloo  advised;  "it'll 
be  Baldy  with  a  new  collection  of  jimjams.  Most 
like  he  see  the  sea  serpent  in  the  lake." 

Peloo's  hazard  of  regret  was  confirmed  by  a 
voice  in  the  wilderness  crying:  "Don't  shoot, 
fellers;  it's  me — Baldy."  His  voice  had  a  streamer- 
like  effect,  showing  that  its  owner  was  speeding. 

"How'd  you  find  things  gener'lly  while  you  was 
away?"  Peloo  asked  as  Slack  stood  by  the  fire  re- 
plenishing his  bellows. 

"Ah,  that's  what  drove  you  in,"  Meekins  said 
as  a  chorus  of  wolf  cries  came  from  the  forest  that 
had  just  yielded  up  their  guest. 

"I  don't  run  from  wolves;  I  stand  an'  club  'em 
off,"  Baldy  declared  indignantly.  "I  see  more'n 
wolves;  I  see  the  man  of  Waho  Heap  Lake.  He 
was  walkin  on  the  water  an'  was  all  on  fire  with  a 
blue  blaze  all  over  him." 

Meekins  cut  irritably  at  his  plug  of  tobacco, 
grinding  the  fragments  viciously  in  the  palm  of  his 
hand.  Peloo  winked  at  St.  John  and  yawned.  No 
one  spoke.  The  silence,  suggestive  of  unbelief, 
angered  Slack  into  words.  "Say,  you  fellers  don't 
believe  I  see  the  ghost  man,  eh?"  he  rasped. 

"We  don't  care,  Baldy,"  Meekins  answered. 
Turning  to  the  Indian,  he  said:  "You  watch  till 
half-night,  Grasshead." 

Before  turning  in,  Meekins  said  to  Peloo:  "We're 
headin'  straight  for  that  country  that  Felix's  mine 
is  in;  this  is  the  same  muskeg  kind  of  country,  too." 

"I've  had  the  same  idee,"  Peloo  answered;  "but 


136  RED  MEEKINS 

that  don't  matter — a  claim  is  only  forty  acres,  an' 
this  muskeg's  as  big  as  Lake  Erie." 

The  tired  men  soon  slept.  The  Indian  scanned 
each  blanket-covered  form,  reading  the  symptoms 
of  sleep  that  left  him  alone;  the  one  conscious  of 
dread;  the  one  the  evil  spirit  would  visit. 

CHAPTER  XIV 

A  long  time  Grasshead  sat  motionless.  Presently 
in  his  nostrils,  his  senses  all  acute,  he  found  the  tell- 
tale perfume  of  burning  balsam.  By  the  slim 
spiral  of  smoke  that  drifted  lazily  from  their  camp 
fire  toward  the  lake  he  knew  that  a  west  wind  had 
carried  the  pungent  odor,  and  that  miles  back  on 
the  trail  the  heart  of  a  forest  was  being  eaten  out 
by  this  relentless  destroyer  that  needed  but  a  rising 
gale  to  sweep  over  the  earth  with  the  speed  of  a 
galloping  horse. 

Now  his  head  drooped  until  his  figure  was  a 
grotesque,  rounded  heap  of  flesh,  blanket-covered. 
The  birch  sticks  in  the  fire  fell  apart  as  they  burned 
in  two,  and,  spreading  out  of  contact,  the  flames 
died  fitfully;  the  red  coals  were  just  a  sullen  blotch. 
The  blackness  of  the  woods  crept  closer,  lessening 
the  circle  that  held  it  at  bay.  One  Wolf  moved 
against  Grasshead's  leg.  Half  waking,  the  Indian 
heard  a  whimper  of  fear  from  the  dog.  Slowly  he 
opened  his  eyes,  conscious  that  something  had  hap- 
pened. He  was  looking  straight  out  across  the 
bitter  waters  of  the  evil  lake;  his  heart  almost 


FOOL'S  GOLD  137 

ceased  to  beat;  fear  chilled  his  blood  till  it  ran  cold. 
There  plainly  to  be  seen,  was  the  man  of  Waho 
Heap,  a  figure  of  ghostly  fire. 

One  Wolf  slowly  rose  to  his  feet,  a  whine  issuing 
from  his  slobbered  lips.  It  wakened  Peloo,  who, 
sitting  upright,  looked  out  across  the  lake,  and 
Grasshead  heard  him  whisper,  'Holy  Mackinaw! 
What's  the  meanin'  of  that?"  Then  he  wreaked 
an  unreasoning  revenge  upon  the  dog,  lifting  him 
with  a  sweep  of  his  foot.  The  yelp  of  One  Wolf 
brought  St.  John  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  of :  "What's 
happened — what's  up?" 

"No  one  answered.  After  the  first  startled  query 
each  one  stood  in  silence,  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the 
supernaturally  lighted  form  that  glided  either  upon 
the  black  waters  of  the  lake,  or  around  its  shore, 
clothed  in  a  blue-green  radiancy.  As  they  watched, 
it  faded  into  darkness. 

Peloo  gasped  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  Englishman, 
conscious  of  a  creepy  feeling,  said,  with  a  laugh  of 
apology.  "My  word!  Devilish  funny  caper!" 

"It's  these  dashed  bush  fires;  the  smoke  an'  dust 
that's  in  the  air  makes  strange  lights,1'  Meekins 
explained  in  an  unconvincing  tone. 

Baldy  sneered;  he  uttered  a  sibilant  note  through 
his  lips  that  was  like  a  stray  chord  in  a  reed  instru- 
ment. 

Immediately  the  clamour  of  the  wolf  pack  fell 
upon  their  ears  off  to  the  left  of  the  lake;  the  bell- 
like  drag  to  the  yelps  told  that  the  pack  ran, 
whether  in  the  hunt  or  hunted.  Now  they  came 


138  RED  MEEKINS 

close,  fiercely  discordant;  the  heavy  sombreness  of 
the  wood  re-echoed  their  din.  At  its  height  the 
clamour  ceased.  In  the  sudden  hush  was  heard  the 
scurrying  of  leaves,  as  though  a  shaft  of  wind  shot 
by  one  side  of  their  camp.  "There  they  go,"  Peloo 
announced,  swinging  his  long  arm  to  the  left.  "I 
wonder  what  got  'em." 

The  dog  had  stood  with  bristled  back,  snarling, 
and,  as  the  wolves  swept  by  in  silent  haste,  he 
dropped  his  tail  and  slunk  to  the  side  of  Grasshead. 

Where  the  wolves  had  bayed,  the  same  ghostly 
figure  they  had  seen  flitted  across  the  darkened  lanes 
that  lay  between  the  spruce  walls.  With  a  growl 
Meekins  grabbed  his  rifle,  and,  throwing  it  to  his 
shoulder,  pulled  the  trigger.  As  he  did  so  the  In- 
dian's arm  shot  out,  and  the  barrel  was  thrust 
upward,  to  belch  its  leaden  bullet  through  the 
branches  of  the  trees. 

As  Meekins  turned  angrily  on  Grasshead  the  lat- 
ter said:  "Ogama,  that  not  good;  the  ball  don't 
kill  evil  spirit — it  make  bad  medicine  for  man  that 
shoot." 

Meekins  glared  at  the  Indian,  and  Peloo  said: 
"We  got  a  couple  more  hours'  sleep  comin';  let's 
turn  in.  Grasshead  won't  sleep  none,  so  we  needn't 
worry  about  a  watch." 

St.  John  was  roused  from  the  brief  sleep  that 
followed  by  the  odor  of  frying  pork.  The  de- 
pressing unrest  of  the  night  cast  a  lethargic  heavi- 
ness upon  their  spirits.  No  greeting  passed  between 


FOOL'S  GOLD  139 

the  men.  Automatically  they  prepared  for  another 
day  of  unforeseen  incident. 

St.  John  took  his  towel  and  soap  down  to  the 
lake.  When  he  returned  his  appearance  caused 
Peloo  to  exclaim :  "Holy  Moses !  What  you  been 
doin'  to  yourself,  mister?" 

Red  turned  away  to  smother  a  laugh.  St.  John's 
hair  and  beard  had  grown  long  on  the  trip,  and 
now  they  stood  out  in  matted  spikes,  seemingly 
covered  with  hoarfrost. 

"It's  just  impossible  to  do  anything  right  on  this 
trip,"  he  complained.  "I  soaped  myself  well,  and 
that  bally  salty  water  just  caked  the  whole  thing." 

But  even  this  grotesque  mishap  soon  lost  its 
cheery  effect.  They  ate  the  fried  pork  in  morose 
silence.  Peloo,  knowing  that  silence  begets  moodi- 
ness,  sought  to  brighten  matters. 

"Once  me  an'  a  young  English  remittance  feller 
went  out  chasin'  a  mine.  In  Haileybury  he  hadn't 
any  use  for  water  that  I  ever  see,  but  when  we  hit 
the  trail  he's  got  a  big  tin  bathtub  on  the  wagon. 
He  allows  he's  goin'  to  condition  himself — get  his 
pores  open  an'  the  bloom  of  health  back.  The 
first  day  out  Sam  Boddy  lost  the  bathtub  off  the 
wagon  crossin'  a  ford.  Say,  that  Englishman  had 
some  cuss  words  I  never  heard  before ;  afterwards 
he  told  us  all  the  Oxford  chaps  knew  them.  The 
first  mornin'  he  don't  get  no  bath,  an  he  don't  eat 
none.  The  second  mornin'  he  says  he  ain't  slept 
none  'cause  the  moil — that  what  he  called  dirt — 
has  baked  his  pores  solid.  He  gets  a  half  pail  of 


140  RED  MEEKINS 

water  out  of  a  mudhole,  wets  a  big  bath  towel  he's 
got,  ties  it  to  a  limb,  an'  climbs  up  an'  down  the 
towel." 

Peloo's  bead  eyes  watched  for  a  smile  on  St. 
John's  lips,  but  the  latter  only  tried  to  pull  his 
fingers  through  his  barbed-wire  beard.  Then  he 
said:  "You  don't  happen  to  be,  by  any  chance,  a 
reincarnation  of  Baron  Munchausen,  do  you,  sir?" 

Meekins,  imitating  Peloo's  manner,  added: 
"Once  I  knowed  a  feller  could  make  up  fool  stories 
fast  as  he  could  gab."  Then  turning  to  Slack,  who 
was  packing  up,  asked:  "Got  a  race  on  to-day  with 
any  the  animals,  Baldy?" 

Slack's  eyes  were  full  of  a  crazy  light  as  he  turned 
them  on  Meekins.  "Are  you  fellers  goin'  huntin' 
that  Devil  Mine  after  the  warnin'  you  had  last 
night?  That  sign  means  fire  an'  destruction." 
Then  he  swung  his  pack  and  strode  away.  In  ten 
yards  he  stopped,  and,  holding  his  hand  high  above 
his  head,  repeated:  "Fire  an'  destruction!  Fire 
an'  destruction!" 

"Deuced  cheerful  chap,  my  word!"  St.  John 
commented  when  Slack  had  gone. 

"That  skunk's  harder  on  the  digestion  than  a 
soggy  bannock.  If  he  ain't  the  loony  Baldy,  what's 
the  other  one  like?" 

Peloo's  query  was  answered  by  the  booming  echo 
of  a  heavy  thud  off  in  the  forest.  "Just  a  big  pine 
that's  tumbled,"  Red  commented.  "The  fire  eatin' 
along  in  the  dry  moss  cut  its  roots." 


FOOL'S  GOLD  141 

"Let's  get  a  hustle  on;  we  ain't  got  no  time  to 
fiddle  away,"  Peloo  added. 

Meekins  led  the  way  around  the  lake,  looking 
for  the  feeder  to  the  pool  of  desolation.  The  lake 
was  half  a  mile  across.  Opposite  to  their  night 
camp,  they  found  a  sluggish  ribbon  of  bitter  water. 
A  disagreeable  odor  rose  from  the  border  of  the 
stream,  due  to  the  deposit  of  sulphur  and  earth 
salts  that  slimed  its  banks  and  carried  on  a  never- 
ceasing  war  of  extermination  against  the  encroach- 
ing vegetation.  From  rotting  and  decomposing 
ferns  a  nauseating  stench  emanated. 

Meekins  kicked  large  plasters  of  sulphur  loose, 
saying:  "That's  where  Felix  got  his  fireworks.  He 
made  up  for  the  part  of  the  ghost  man.  We  might 
find  this  cesspool  mighty  handy,"  and  Meekins 
swept  his  arm  toward  the  western  sky.  "The  wind 
is  from  the  east,  but  a  big  bush  fire  don't  need  any- 
thin'  to  push  it  along." 

They  followed  the  stream  that  wound  its  snake- 
like  way  through  a  thick-growthed  muskeg.  When 
they  rested  at,  noon  Peloo  asked  Meekins  what  he 
thought  of  the  footprints  they  had  crossed  several 
times. 

"I  just  can't  make  Felix  out  no  more  than  I 
could  all  along.  We  must  be  gettin'  near  the  be- 
ginnin'  of  this  sewerage,  an'  that  means  that  he'll 
play  his  biggest  trump.  I'd  like  to  know  what  it's 
goin'  to  be." 

Meekins  did  not  wait  long  for  the  knowledge  he 
desired.  He  saw  Grasshead  straighten  his  back 


142  RED  MEEKINS 

from  the  task  of  frying  pork  over  the  fire,  and 
facing  the  east,  expand  his  nostrils;  then  the  Indian 
stolidly  grunted:  "Fire  that  side,  too." 

Peloo  and  Meekins  sprang  up,  dread  in  their 
faces.  A  moment's  concentration  of  their  forest 
instinct,  and  they  knew  that  the  Indian  was  right. 
The  woods  to  the  east  of  them  was  afire;  they  were 
surrounded  by  it,  caught  between  two  leaping  walls 
of  destruction.  The  long  drought  had  dried  up 
the  earth;  the  very  undergrowth,  the  small  bushes 
and  ferns  were  dead.  Their  shrivelled  forms, 
parchmentlike,  would  burn  as  tinder;  the  carpeted 
muskeg  itself  would  feed  the  conflagration;  the 
woven  woof  of  squaw-tea  shrub,  first  cousin  to  the 
wintergreen,  with  its  coral  berries,  the  wintergreen 
itself,  the  wild  grass,  the  muskeg  hay,  the  short 
wolf  willow,  the  sweet  grass,  the  moss,  a  veritable 
peat — all  were  fuel.  And  the  wind  that  had  risen 
in  the  east  would  fan  the  fire. 

"It's  that  devil!"  Meekins  said.  "This  is  the 
card  he  held  in  his  sleeve." 

"You  know  I  often  wondered,"  Peloo  com- 
mented, "that  he  didn't  put  a  shot  over,  as  we  was 
sittin'  in  the  light  of  the  camp  fire.  But  this  was 
the  game ;  he  kind  of  felt  sure  of  baggin'  the  lot  of 
us,  providin'  we  didn't  turn  tail  an'  take  the  back 
trail  in  the  meantime." 

There  was  the  scurrying  rush  of  some  forest 
creatures  through  the  thick  growth,  symbolized  by 
a  noise  like  the  rending  of  cotton.  "It's  the  animals 
hikin'  to  cover,"  Peloo  advised. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  143 

"Yes,"  Meekins  admitted  grudgingly,  "we  got 
to  hit  the  back  trail  for  Waho  Heap. 

As  they  trailed,  Peloo  shot  a  searching  glance 
at  St.  John,  mentally  measuring  the  reserve  force 
left.  Woodsman  as  he  was,  Peloo  knew  that  ahead 
of  them  lay  in  all  probability  a  life-and-death  strug- 
gle. St.  John,  tenderfoot,  was  the  weak  link  in  the 
chain.  Grasping  the  latter's  pack,  without  a  check 
in  his  stride,  he  swung  it  to  his  shoulders,  and  St. 
John,  relieved  of  the  unaccustomed  task  of  bal- 
ancing the  disconcerting  weight,  pushed  forward 
at  a  freer  gait. 

The  air  hung  dead  and  void,  and  yet  it  was 
vibrant  with  subtle  currents.  Above,  through  the 
opening  of  the  trees,  St.  John  could  see  a  flowing 
stream  of  murk,  a  river  of  yellow-tinted  gloom;  its 
speed  was  rather  felt  than  seen;  some  upper  current 
bore  it  in  a  swift  drift  to  the  west.  A  hissing, 
singing  note  was  in  the  air,  as  though  bees  swarmed 
from  myriad  hives.  Gossamer  flowers  floated 
through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  and  St.  John 
knew  them  for  the  harbingers  of  fire — the  burned 
leaves. 

As  they  raised  a  rounded  ridge  of  white  sand, 
almost  bare  of  trees,  Peloo  waxed  exultant:  "Good 
old  Red!  He's  got  a  head  as  long  as  a  horse. 
This'll  check  him,"  and  Peloo  yanked  his  hand  back 
toward  the  pursuing  fire.  "This'll  get  him  guessin'. 
Time  our  friend  has  turned  this  sand  into  plate  glass 
we'll  have  gained  a  lap.  Come  on  you,  Johnnie 
Bull;  we'll  just  win  this  in  a  common  canter.  There 


144  RED  MEEKINS 

ain't  nothin'  to  it.  You'll  have  your  bath  in  that 
little  lake  of  brine  an'  feel  as  fresh  as  a  daisy." 

Then  they  dipped  into  a  tamarack  swamp,  the 
tall,  tapering  trunks  all  dead.  "When  he  gets 
among  these  kiln-dried  dead  ones  there'll  be  some- 
thin'  doin'."  Peloo  declared.  "He'll  wax  fat  on  this 
mouthful.  Hike,  English,  hike!" 

Every  few  minutes  some  animal  raced  by  them — 
rabbits,  foxes,  lynx,  a  deer.  Once  a  cow  moose  and 
two  calves,  the  young  pacing  with  a  curious,  shuffling 
gait,  passed.  "They  know,"  Peloo  growled;  "they've 
got  some  inside  information  on  this,  an'  they're  beat- 
in'  it  to  that  Slough  of  Despond." 

In  the  end  the  fleeing  men  won  to  the  goal  of 
Waho  Heap. 

As  they  hesitated  on  the  edge  of  the  lake  the 
animals,  their  timid  minds  filled  with  this  greater 
dread  of  the  fire,  forgot  the  man  fear  and  pressed 
to  the  very  side  of  the  human.  All  kinds  did  this. 
A  bear,  fat  as  an  alderman,  gorged  on  the  autumn 
fruitfulness,  stood  sniffling,  his  red  tongue  protrud- 
ing between  white-frothed  lips  not  three  yards  from 
St.  John,  his  little  pig  eyes  twinkling  interrogatively. 
A  bull  moose,  moaning  plaintively,  came  crashing 
through  the  bush,  his  huge  spread  of  antlers  rapping 
the  trunks  like  a  woodsman's  axe.  His  headgear 
was  on  fire,  the  velvet  hanging  in  shreds  from  the 
lordly  spikes  was  ablaze.  Even  he  knew  that  his 
rage  was  against  mightier  forces  than  puny  man. 
He  almost  galloped  over  Peloo  in  his  rush  for  the 
lake. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  145 

The  bull's  rudeness  stirred  Trout  to  vehement 
denunciation.  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  departing 
giant,  growling:  "You  big  whisky-nosed  slob, 
serves  you  right  to  get  your  horns  singed,  havin' 
'em  in  curl  papers  this  time  of  year!"  He  turned 
to  St.  John:  "He  should' ve  had  'em  polished  up 
clean  before  now;  he's  a  boob.  That's  how  he 
got  caught  in  the  fire." 

Meekins  was  lustily  swinging  his  axe  into  the 
pole  of  a  dry  popular.  "Red's  gettin'  the  timber 
out  for  an  ark,"  Peloo  explained.  "You  might've 
noticed  the  animals  a-gatherin'.  We're  in  the  Noah 
bus'ness." 

They  soon  had  a  fair-sized  raft  lashed  together 
with  their  tumplines.  The  food  supplies  and 
blankets  were  placed  on  this,  and  then  they  waited 
for  the  approaching  fire. 

The  dog,  One  Wolf,  like  his  wilder  friends  of 
the  forest,  was  filled  with  the  essence  of  fear.  He 
ran  here  and  there,  sniffing  and  giving  expression 
to  short  yelps  of  discontent;  his  restlessness  was  like 
that  of  a  caged  leopard.  He  tripped  over  rabbits 
without  recognition.  The  bear  might  have  been  a 
blackened  stump  for  all  the  attention  bruin  received 
from  One  Wolf.  His  tongue,  hanging  from  his 
lean  jaws,  dripped  with  perspiration,  though  he 
was  burning  with  thirst.  He  lapped  at  the  brackish 
water,  and  turned  away  with  a  whine  of  despond- 
ency. He  was  turning  over  and  over  in  his  mind 
the  extraordinary  problem  of  these  men,  masters 
by  right  of  mental  control,  loitering  here  in  the 


146  RED  MEEKINS 

shadow  of  death  when  they  might,  like  the  fleeing 
deer  and  the  galloping  wolves,  race  to  safety. 
"Yelp,  yelp,  yelp !"  he  warned  them. 

It  was  Grasshead,  more  primitive  than  the  others, 
who  remembered  the  unpalatable  quality  of  the 
waters.  From  a  hole  which  he  dug  in  the  swamp 
some  distance  away  he  brought  a  pailful  of  water 
that  in  ordinary  times  they  would  have  refused  to 
drink. 

"That  feller  maybe  done  us  a  good  turn  touchin' 
off  this  fire,"  Meekins  said.  "It'll  burn  out  the 
small  wood  an'  check  the  big  blaze. 

It  was  curiously  like  waiting  for  an  approaching 
hurricane,  where  one  can  do  nothing  but  just  wait, 
held  in  the  hand  of  fate.  At  first  there  was  a  sol- 
emn stillness,  a  smothering  feeling  as  though  they 
breathed  compressed  air.  The  atmosphere,  trapped 
between  the  two  fires,  pressed  upon  them  as  a 
weight,  and  above  was  the  lurid  sky. 

Then  sudden,  peripatetic  gusts  of  scorching  wind 
belched  through  the  funnel  openings  of  the  forest, 
as  though  some  dragon  blew  his  poisoned  breath 
upon  them.  Showers  of  charred  twigs  and  leaves 
fell.  Intermittent  flashes  of  red  flames  seared  the 
smoky  gloom  of  the  forest;  the  crackling  hiss  grew 
plainer.  They  heard  the  wailing  dismemberment 
of  falling  trees;  the  thump  of  their  bodies  against 
the  earth  was  like  the  beat  of  some  gong;  the 
timber  growth  of  a  century  was  dying.  The  air 
was  the  scorching  breath  of  a  furnace;  it  shriveled 


FOOL'S  GOLD  147 

their  lungs;  its  vicious  gas  seared  their  eyes;  vitriolic 
fumes  clouded  their  brains. 

To  St.  John  it  was  like  a  huge  pantomime,  half 
unreal.  There  flashed  a  retrospective  gleam  across 
his  mind;  it  was  something  he  had  read  of  Aga- 
memnon standing  on  the  walls  of  Troy  watching 
new  worlds  being  born.  He  was  roused  by  the 
harsh,  commanding  voice  of  Meekins :  "Get  on 
the  raft,  St.  John !"  He  heard  Peloo  say:  "Hold 
her  a  minute,  Red,  till  I  catch  that  locoed  pup;  I 
can't  bear  to  see  an  animal  burned  to  death." 

One  Wolf  was,  beyond  argument,  locoed,  or 
perhaps  educated.  All  his  life  he  had  been  pursued 
and  caught  for  one  of  two  purposes  only — either 
to  be  beaten  for  some  thievery  or  cast  into  harness 
for  the  dog  train — so  he  adroitly  eluded  Peloo's 
grasp.  Half  a  dozen  times  the  big  man  reached  out 
a  hand,  and  each  time  he  missed.  Of  course  his 
humane  impulse  could  not  survive  this  contumely 
from  a  dog,  and  presently  he  returned  to  the  raft, 
consigning  One  Wolf  to  the  melting  pot  of  Hades. 

Then  the  raft,  bearing  St.  John,  was-  pushed  out 
into  the  lake;  and  others,  wading,  held  the  log 
raft  between  them.  Fighting,  yielding  inch  by  inch, 
driven  back  by  the  darting  tongues  of  flame,  the 
spitting  coals,  the  belching  gas,  the  men  who  held 
the  raft  went  outward  from  knee-deep  to  where 
their  hips  were  buried,  and  on  still  till  the  water, 
evil  smelling,  lapped  at  their  chins. 

"This  is  hell !"  Peloo  exclaimed,  holding  the  back 
of  his  wrist  to  his  scorched  eyes. 


148  RED  MEEKINS 

"It's  worse,"  Meekins  confirmed,  "  'cause  there 
you  don't  expect  nothin'  else." 

"Well,  I  should  say  that  after  this  there'll  surely 
be  a  turn  in  the  luck,"  St.  John  contributed  from 
where  he  sat  like  a  figure  of  Buddha,  his  legs  curled 
beneath  him. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  left  but  a  snowstorm  now," 
Peloo  contributed.  Even  against  the  background 
of  disaster  his  brush-whiskered  face  looked  droll 
enough  to  inspire  St.  John  with  an  intense  desire 
to  laugh.  It  was  not  unlike  one  of  those  grotesque, 
carved  faces  on  a  coconut  floating  on  the  surface  of 
the  water. 

With  frightened  yelps,  three  wolves — mother 
and  pups — skirting  the  lake  shore,  glided  like  gray 
shadows  over  the  spot  where  they  had  embarked. 
The  dog,  swayed  by  the  scent,  the  something  of 
relationship,  joined  the  wolves  as  they  fled. 

"Like  rats  desertin'  the  ship!"  Peloo  remarked. 

"We  walk  in  Inferno  with  Dante,"  St.  John  de- 
clared, with  unintelligible  irrelevance. 

The  conditions  seemed  to  impose  this  mind  segre- 
gation upon  the  men.  The  terrific  conflict  inter- 
posed a  mental  distance  between  them;  they  talked 
or  sang,  not  caring  about  response. 

Meekins  knew  a  series  of  epic  songs  pertaining 
to  lumberjacks,  miners,  and  others,  the  opening  line 
of  each  individual  song  being,  "Come,  all  ye  jolly 
farmers,"  or  "Come,  all  ye  men  of  toil,"  and  so 
forth.  Now  he  chanted  the  gamut  of  his  repertoire 
with  a  happy  abstraction. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  149 

Once  Peloo  thrust  himself  into  one  of  Red's  mu- 
sical numbers,  saying  reminiscently :  "I  knew  a  feller 
once  in  a  'sylum  that  caught  fire,  an'  he  stood  on  the 
roof  recitin'  'The  Boy  stood  on  the  burnin'  deck.'  " 

They  became  the  victims  of  divergent  tortures. 
Their  limbs  were  incased  in  waters  cold  as  the 
North  Sea;  their  heads  burned  and  throbbed  with 
the  heat  of  Hades;  they  gasped  for  breath,  and 
now  the  wind,  sucked  into  the  vortex  of  the  fire, 
rushed  over  the  face  of  the  water,  lashing  it  into 
white-spumed  waves.  Above,  the  yellow  sulphurous 
smoke,  acrid  from  the  burning  pine  pitch,  clouded 
from  view  the  sky,  and  the  poisonous  gases  of  a 
heavy  gravity  dripped  earthward. 

Maddened  by  the  heat,  St.  John,  too,  slipped  into 
the  lake,  dipping  his  head  from  time  to  time. 

The  Indian  stoically  clung  to  the  raft,  voicing 
neither  hope  nor  fear. 

The  great  fire  had  come  up  out  of  the  west,  the 
fire  that  had  hung  on  their  trail  for  days,  and  but 
for  the  despised  miniature  Dead  Sea  they  would 
have  perished  at  the  meeting  of  the  flames.  All 
night  they  shifted,  floated,  waded,  and  swam  on 
the  little  oasis  in  the  desert  of  fire.  The  coming  of 
day  was  almost  imperceptible,  for  the  darkness  was 
great;  it  was  like  an  eclipse.  To  the  west  the  forest 
was  still  ablaze;  to  the  east  stood  myriad  blackened 
trees;  but  the  fire  had  died  down. 

They  drifted  with  the  raft,  leechlike  clinging  to 
its  sides,  to  the  eastern  shore,  and  wearily  pulled 
themselves  up  from  the  waters. 


150  RED  MEEKINS 

CHAPTER  XV 

When  they  had  eaten,  Meekins  said:  "We  got 
to  pull  our  freight  out  of  here.  The  fire  behind  is 
goin'  to  wake  up  soon's  the  atmosphere  starts  goin' 
up,  an'  eat  its  way  plumb  through  this  half-burned 
stuff." 

They  trailed  eastward,  numbed  by  the  torture 
of  weariness  like  unsensitized  turtles.  The  ground 
was  covered  with  a  network  of  half-burned  trees; 
the  limbs,  gnawed  off  by  the  fire,  carried  lancelike 
points  that  ripped  at  their  clothes  and  flesh.  The 
peat  sod  of  the  dry  swamp  had  been  caverned  be- 
neath, and  often  a  leg  went  through  to  the  knee, 
bringing  its  owner  down  beneath  his  big  pack. 

In  the  afternoon  they  knew  that  Meekins'  fore- 
cast was  true;  the  greater  fire  was  now  sweeping 
over  the  partly  burned  forest.  The  wind  had 
swung  around  to  the  west  and  was  driving  it.  The 
race  against  death  was  still  on. 

"She's  warmin'  up,"  Peloo  declared. 

There  was  the  disturbance  of  a  hurricane  in  the 
air,  volumes  of  gas,  rolled  into  huge  balloons,  burst 
with  the  ripping  noise  of  thunder  when  reached  by 
a  skyward  shoot  of  flame  from  some  tall  pine.  The 
fire  was  more  terrific  in  its  grandeur,  more  insatiate 
in  its  appetite,  gulping  into  its  maw  the  green  trees 
of  health  as  well  as  the  dry  trees  of  death.  For 
hours  they  struggled  in  sullen  desperation.  Once 
Meekins  stopped,  and,  looking  about  in  a  bewil- 
dered way,  growled:  "We're  lost.  I've  missed 


FOOL'S  GOLD  151 

that  ditch  of  stinkin'  water.  I  seem  to  be  goin' 
round  an'  round;  there  ain't  nothin'  to  go  by — 
nothin'.  I  look  at  the  compass  an'  I  see  a  whole 
bunch  of  needles  playin'  tag.  My  eyes  is  on  fire." 

"What  we  want  is  some  place  where  there  ain't 
nothin'  to  burn;  forget  the  points  of  the  compass!" 
Peloo  growled. 

Suddenly  Trout  whirled  and  searched  with  his 
eyes  the  back  trail.  Then  he  groaned:  "Oh,  Lord, 
we  ain't  so  lost  that  cuss  can't  find  us;  there  comes 
Baldy!" 

Meekins  took  off  his  hat  and  rumpled  his  shock 
of  hair,  saying  dejectedly:  "It's  him." 

"Hello!  You  fellers  lost  again?"  Slack  hailed 
blithely  as  he  approached. 

"Not  so's  our  friends  can't  find  us,"  Peloo  re- 
torted. "Where  d'you  come  from  last?" 

"I  been  in  that  ha'nted  lake  all  night;  I  got 
caught  between  these  two  fires.  I  picked  up  your 
trail  where  you  crawled  out  like  muskrats  this 
morning'." 

"Was  there  anythin'  you  was  wantin'?"  Peloo 
asked  innocently. 

"Sure.  I  want  to  know  if  this  gent  is  goin'  to 
pay  me  for  'em  things  I  cached  back  there  an'  is  now 
burned  up?" 

"Mr.  St.  John  ain't  no  insurance  comp'ny, 
Baldy,"  Peloo  retorted. 

Before  Slack  could  restate  his  claim  Meekins  in- 
terrupted: "We  got  to  get  along;  this  is  playin' 


152  RED  MEEKINS 

the  dang  fool.  Can  you  find  that  ghost  mine — the 
rocks  with  the  cave,  Baldy?" 

"I  was  headin'  for  there  same's  you  was  till  you 
lost  the  salt  creek  at  that  place  where  it  runs  under- 
ground for  two  hundred  yards.  Then  I  knew  you 
was  lost  again  an'  followed  to  save  your  dang 
necks." 

"Come  on,  then,"  and  Meekins  slung  his  pack. 

Following  Slack,  they  picked  up  the  small  stream, 
again,  and  in  an  hour  they  could  see  a  big,  white- 
gleaming  rock.  As  they  worked  their  way  closer, 
Meekins  discovered  the  big  lone  pine  which  the 
map  showed  as  standing  on  the  rock  near  the  cave. 

Keeping  to  the  woods,  they  circled  the  rock  till 
they  came  opposite  this  tree ;  then  they  could  see  in 
a  cliff  in  the  rock  the  black  opening  of  the  cave. 
Evidently  it  had  been  well  hidden  before  the  fire 
by  a  thick  growth  of  bushes  which  were  now  de- 
stroyed. 

"Hold  on,  Baldy!"  Meekins  said,  putting  a  de- 
taining hand  on  Slack's  arm.  "We  got  to  do  some 
figgerin'  before  we  sail  up  to  that  door."  He 
turned  to  Peloo.  "I'm  afeared  there  ain't  no  chance 
that  Felix  got  burned  to  death." 

"No;  he'll  be  up  in  that  cubby-hole  waitin'  with 
a  mottor  over  the  door,  'Welcome  to  our  happy 
home;'  he  knows  we're  headin'  this  way,"  Peloo 
declared. 

"There  ain't  no  use  givin'  him  a  chance  to  shoot 
two  or  three,  an'  we  got  to  get  in  there  or  get 
burned  to  death.  I'm  goin'  to  take  the  gun  an' 


FOOL'S  GOLD  153 

crawl  along  by  that  wall  an'  make  a  quick  dash  for 
the  cave.  If  I  come  out  an'  wave  my  hat,  you'll 
know  he  ain't  there,  or  I've  pinned  him." 

"That's  pretty  risky,  Red,"  Peloo  objected. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  he's  in  there,"  Red  declared 
carelessly. 

"You're  some  liar,  sorrel  top.  You're  pretty 
sure  he's  there;  so  am  I.  But  you  ain't  goin'  to 
hog  the  game  by  gettin'  first  chance  at  him;  you'll 
just  draw  lots  with  me  as  to  who  yanks  him  out." 
Peloo  adjusted  two  little  sticks  between  his  fingers 
and  proffered  his  hand  to  Meekins,  saying:  "Short 
stick  interviews  Felix." 

Meekins,  drew,  and  Peloo,  handing  him  the  re- 
maining stick,  said:  "You  win,  but  be  danged 
careful." 

Baldy,  who  had  been  eyeing  this  performance 
with  a  disgruntled  look,  asked:  "Is  it  that  yeller 
feller  I  see  on  the  log  back  there?" 

"That's  the  cuss,"  Peloo  answered. 

"An'  he's  got  it  in  for  you  fellers?" 

"He  has." 

"Then  you  can't  beat  that  feller  out;  he'll  pot  you 
sure's  God  made  little  apples." 

"What  would  you  suggest,  Baldy;  wait  here  an' 
get  burned  up?"  Peloo  asked  sarcastically. 

"That  feller  ain't  got  nothin'  'gainst  me;  I  ain't 
afeared  of  him."  Slack  pointed  to  a  corner  in  the 
rock  just  beyond  the  cave  mouth  where  the  cliff 
fell  away.  "You  two  fellers  take  a  wide  circle  back 
in  the  bush,  an'  work  up  to  that  place,"  he  said. 


154  RED  MEEKINS 

"Nobody  can  see  you  from  the  cave.  I'll  go 
straight  up  from  here,  same's  if  I  was  alone  an' 
gettin'  away  from  the  fire.  He  won't  shoot  me; 
he'll  be  glad  of  comp'ny.  Soon's  I'm  inside  I'll 
grab  him  if  he's  there,  an'  you  fellers  come  in  on 
the  run." 

Peloo  looked  at  Slack,  surprised  admiration  in 
his  eyes,  and  held  out  his  hand.  "That's  pretty 
decent,  Baldy.  Shake! 

Peloo's  emotion  affected  Slack.  He  replied:  "I 
ought  to  get  paid  for  'em  things  I  cached." 

Trout  point  to  St.  John,  who  was  sitting  on  a  log 
fast  asleep,  and  laughed. 

Slack's  plan  was  so  reasonable  that  Meekins 
accepted  it.  From  where  they  were  in  the  woods 
they  felt  sure  that  no  one  in  the  cave  could  see  them. 

Waking  St.  John  and  telling  him  to  remain  just 
where  he  was  with  all  their  packs,  Meekins  and 
Trout,  with  a  wide  detour,  circled  the  cliff.  Slack, 
meanwhile,  to  draw  the  attention  of  Felix,  made 
his  way  slowly  and  openly  toward  the  cave.  Peloo 
and  Meekins  were  in  position,  Red  with  his  rifle 
ready,  not  ten  feet  from  the  cave  mouth,  when 
Baldy  made  a  quick  dash  into  it. 

A  cry  and  a  wild  turmoil  within  caused  the  two 
watchers  to  dash  for  the  entrance.  As  they  reached 
it  they  were  swept  off  their  feet  by  a  living  torrent — 
a  rushing  black  thing  that  grunted  like  a  pig  shot 
between  Trout's  legs,  bringing  him  down.  Peloo 
grabbed  with  both  hands  the  soft  fur  of  his  as- 


FOOL'S  GOLD  155 

sailant,  and,  face  to  tail,  he  was  carried  off  at  a 
galloping  rate  toward  the  bush. 

Baldy,  part  of  the  flood,  had  lighted  on  his  head 
among  some  boulders. 

Meekins  scrambled  to  his  feet,  rubbing  a  leg,  and 
darted  into  the  cave. 

Peloo,  who  had  been  dismounted,  came  limping 
back,  exclaiming:  "You  seem  kind  of  fond  of 
gettin'  mixed  up  with  bears,  Baldy." 

Meekins  now  appeared.  "There  ain't  no  sign 
of  Felix.  You  an'  Baldy  bring  Mr.  St.  John  an' 
the  packs,  an'  I'll  keep  guard  till  you  come." 

When  they  had  returned  with  the  Englishman 
and  entered  the  cave  they  found  themselves  in  a 
chamber  with  a  rounded  dome,  about  fifteen  feet  in 
diameter.  From  this  two  dark  drifts  led  away  into 
the  beyond,  through  one  of  which  the  bitter  water 
flowed. 

"I  like  'em  bears  bein'  in  here,"  Meekins  com- 
mented. 

"I   don't,"    Peloo    declared. 

"I  mean,"  Meekins  added,  "that  it  looks  's  if 
they  hadn't  been  disturbed  before — as  if  Felix  hadn' 
come." 

"We  can't  stay  here,"  Peloo  offered.  "We'd 
smother  from  the  gas  when  that  big  fire  sweeps 
across,  an'  she's  not  far  back,  neither." 

"There's  lots  more  caves  back  there,"  Baldy 
advised. 

"How  d'you  know — you  been  here  before?" 
Meekins  asked. 


156  RED  MEEKINS 

"It  don't  make  no  dif'rence  how  I  know  if  there 
is  caves,"  Baldy  answered  surlily. 

Meekins  saying,  "Come  on,  let's  explore," 
started  down  the  passage  of  the  running  water,  a 
candle  which  he  had  lighted  in  his  hand. 

They  passed  two  crosscut  passages,  and  then 
came  to  a  chamber  that  was  quite  twenty  feet  in 
diameter.  The  rock  floor  was  dry,  lying  a  foot 
above  the  stream  of  bitter  water.  There  was  a 
round  dome  roof  to  this  twenty  feet  high;  in  the 
centre  of  this  roof,  through  a  chink,  the  light  en- 
tered, showing  what  had  evidently  been  the  square 
opening  of  a  shaft. 

"I  guess  we'd  best  camp  here,"  Meekins  advised. 
"We  can  get  some  ventilation,  an'  we  can  pot  Felix 
if  he  tries  to  sneak  in  on  us  through  that  passage." 

"We'll  be  safe  here,"  Peloo  confirmed.  "The 
fire'll  sweep  overhead,  an'  'bout  to-morrow  we  can 
start  back  to  tell  the  little  priest  that  somebody 
gutted  his  gold  mine." 

"What?"  ejaculated  St.  John. 

"Yes,"  Meekins  advised,  "Peloo's  right.  These 
caves've  been  worked  out  right  enough."  Red  was 
picking  with  his  knife  at  a  soft  stringer  in  the  wall. 
He  held  some  of  the  debris  in  his  palm,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  candle  St.  John  could  see  the  yellow 
gleam  of  gold.  "These  caves've  been  what's  called 
kidneys  of  gold,  loose  schists,  an'  they've  just 
shovelled  it  out — somebody." 

"Not  Felix  surely?"  St.  John  cried. 

"No,  it's  been  done  before  his  time.     An'  now 


FOOL'S  GOLD  157 

I  can't  understand  why  there  was  any  killin'  if  there 
was  no  gold." 

"The  whole  the'ry  falls  to  pieces,  Red;  it's  got 
me  guessin',"  Peloo  declared  dolefully. 

"Well,  we'll  just  make  ourselves  as  comfortable 
here  as  we  can;  we  can  open  our  packs,  spread  our 
blankets,  and  have  somethin'  to  eat." 

"Talkin'  of  eatin',"  Peloo  said  from  the  far  side 
of  the  cave;  "somebody's  been  camped  here  right 
enough.  Here's  a  nice  tidy  pile  of  dry  poplar  wood. 
We'll  start  a  fire  an'  have  a  pot  of  tea.  Gad,  we 
ain't  got  no  fresh  water!"  he  added  suddenly.  "An* 
my  advice  to  any  one  is  not  to  go  outside  any  more'n 
he  can  help." 

"There'll  be  plenty  of  seepage  water  comin* 
through  the  rocks  down  that  passage,"  Red  de- 
clared. "You  go  get  some,  Grasshead." 

But  the  Indian  shook  his  head.  "Me  no  go.  Bad 
medicine.  Plenty  dead  men  down  there!" 

Meekins  picked  up  a  pail.  "You  old  squaw!"  he 
exclaimed.  "There  ain't  nothin'  there  but  holes 
in  the  rock." 

"The  Injun's  right,"  Baldy  contended;  "there's 
a  roomful  of  dead  men  packed  away  somewhere  in 
this  mine." 

Meekins,  carrying  the  pail,  disappeared  in  the 
darkness  of  the  drift  on  his  quest  for  water.  Peloo 
started  a  fire,  and,  taking  out  the  fry  pan,  proceeded 
to  slice  bacon. 

St.  John,  dead  tired,  spread  his  blankets  and  lay 
down.  Slack  was  puffing  moodily  at  his  pipe. 


158  RED  MEEKINS 

For  five  minutes  no  one  spoke,  the  silence  only 
disturbed  by  the  sputtering  of  fat  in  the  fry  pan  and 
the  scrape  of  a  knife  as  Peloo  turned  the  bacon. 

Suddenly,  with  a  roar,  the  whole  rock  island 
they  had  found  seemed  to  rise  up  and  fall  back  with 
a  crash  as  of  splindered  glass.  A  shaft  of  stifling 
gas  drove  in  from  the  tunnel  and  prostrated  them 
like  tenpins.  Gasping  for  breath,  choking,  almost 
smothered,  they  struggled  to  their  feet,  the  horror 
of  a  new  catastrophe  in  their  eyes. 

"What  is  it?"  St.  John  panted,  but  Peloo,  stunned 
by  the  awful  surmise  that  was  in  his  mind,  did  not 
answer. 

Meekins  came  rushing  to  the  chamber,  splashing 
through  the  water.  When  he  saw  the  others  still 
alive  he  gasped:  "Thank  God!  When  I  heard 
that  I  thought  Peloo's  fire  had  somehow  got  to  the 
dynamite  in  my  pack.  I  expected  to  find  you  all 
blowed  to  pieces." 

He  drew  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as  if  to  shut 
out  his  vision;  he  was  trembling.  Then  he  jumped 
into  the  running  water,  and  disappeared  down  the 
drift  they  had  come  in  by. 

Presently  he  returned,  and,  sitting  down  as  if 
exhausted,  said  brokenly:  "We're  trapped!  That 
cursed  breed  has  blowed  in  the  passage !" 

The  horror  of  the  situation  flashed  into  the  minds 
of  every  one.  Trapped! 

"That  devil,"  Meekins  continued,  "had  this  game 
in  his  mind  when  he  stole  that  dynamite  from  your 
pack,  mister. 


FOOL'S  GOLD  159 

The  Englishman  started;  he  had  not  known  of 
this,  but  he  remained  silent. 

"He  had  two  ways  of  baggin'  us,"  Peloo  said. 
"Nothin'  small  'bout  him.  Get  us  all  at  once;  set 
the  whole  north  country  afire  to  burn  us,  or,  if  tjiat 
fell  down,  hide  here  in  some  of  these  crosscuts  till 
we  was  all  in  here,  an'  then  blow  in  the  hallway." 

"That's  what  I  get  for  helpin'  you  fellers  out," 
Slack  commented  bitterly. 

"Can't  we  get  out?"  St.  John  asked.  "Surely 
there  must  be  another  passage." 

"I  ain't  never  been  in  no  tight  corner  I  couldn't 
squeeze  out  of,  mister.  We'll  be  out  of  here  to- 


morrow." 


Peloo  searched  Red's  face,  but  the  latter  turned 
his  eyes  sullenly  away. 

A  scraping  noise  above  their  heads  caused  them 
to  look  upward.  Two  of  the  small  logs  covering 
the  opening  were  thrust  to  one  side,  and  the  evil 
face  of  Felix  appeared  in  the  opening. 

"You  all  ver'  comf'able,  m'sieus?  You  fin'  de 
gol'  mine,  eh?  P'r'aps  you  fin'  another  dead  man. 
Ha-ha!"  The  sneering  voice  was  fiendish. 

"You  surely  don't  mean  to  murder  men  in  cold 
blood  in  this  cowardly  way?"  St.  John  expostu- 
lated. 

"Dat's  not  murder;  you  go  in  you'self.  Nom 
du  chien!" 

Baldy  stood  in  the  shadow.  No  one  noticed  that 
he  held  his  light  Marlin  rifle  behind  his  back.  "You 


160  RED  MEEKINS 

let  me  out !"  he  commanded.  "You  ain't  got  nothin' 
'gainst  me." 

"By  gar,  dere's  de  smart  man!  You  t'ink  I 
don'  know  you're  wit'  dese  men  when  you  come  walk 
by  you'self  to  de  cave,  eh?  You  smart  man,  M'sieu 
Loony  Baldy!" 

The  taunt  roused  Slack  to  fury.  Felix  saw  the 
gun  swung  to  the  hip,  and  dodged  just  as  the  red 
flash  spurted  from  its  barrel. 

There  was  a  silence.  Felix  had  either  been  killed 
or  had  gone;  there  was  only  the  droning  howl  of 
the  forest  fire. 

"I  hope  you  shot  him,  Baldy,"  Peloo  said  after 
a  little.  "I'd  hate  to  know  that  devil  got  away 
after  this." 

"Felix  won't  get  away,"  Meekins  declared.  "He 
committed  suicide  when  he  blowed  in  that  passage." 

Nobody  asked  any  explanation  of  this.  The 
danger  of  their  own  position  loomed  larger  than 
Felix's  possible  fate. 

"Well,  let's  eat  this  grub  an'  then  find  some  way 
of  gettin'  out,"  Peloo  suggested. 

When  they  had  eaten,  Meekins  said:  "Me  an' 
Peloo'll  hunt  some  way  of  gettin'  out,  an',  Baldy, 
you  an'  Mr.  St.  John  can  wait  here.  There  must 
be  some  air  shaft  somewhere  back  in  these  work- 
in's." 

The  two  men,  floundering  and  slipping  on  the 
slimy  stones  that  lay  in  the  water  in  the  bed  of  the 
drift,  found  a  perfect  network  of  drifts  and  cross- 
cuts leading  to  and  out  of  cavelike  chambers,  the 


FOOL'S  GOLD  161 

latter  all  showing  that  a  fabulous  quantity  of  gold 
schists  had  been  taken  out,  by  whom  or  when  it 
was  impossible  to  conjecture. 

As  they  sat  in  a  large  chamber  that  was  the  end 
of  a  crosscut  they  had  followed,  Meekins  said:  "I 
guess  there  ain't  no  air  shaft,  Peloo;  these  fellers 
that  gutted  this  didn't  need  it."  He  pointed  to 
the  roof  of  the  cave;  smoke  was  sifting  down 
through  a  fissure  three  inches  wide.  "They  got 
ventilation  through  these  cracks  an'  the  mouth  of 
the  tunnel." 

"I  guess  Felix  knowed  all  that  when  he  blowed 
us  in." 

After  they  had  rested,  they  once  more  took  up 
their  pilgrimage.  As  they  followed  a  small  passage, 
the  roof  of  which  was  so  low  that  they  were  forced 
to  crouch,  suddenly  Meekins  sprang  back  with  a  cry 
of  pain;  he  put  his  hand  to  his  cheek,  and  when  he 
withdrew  it  it  was  covered  with  blood.  A  sweep  of 
the  candle,  a  minute  examination  of  something  that 
projected  at  a  sharp  angle  from  the  rocf,  and 
Meekins  leaned  against  the  wall  and  lau'ghed. 

Peloo  looked  compassionately  at  him.  "I  guess 
you're  kind  of  tuckered  out,  Red,  an'  that  nasty 
jab's  upset  you,  ain't  it?" 

"Do  you  know  where  we  are?"  Meekins  queried. 

"I  ain't  sure,  but  I  kind  of  think  we're  in  jail." 

"We're  on  Felix's  mine.  An'  that's  the  steel 
bar  you  drove  down  through  the  crack  in  the  test 
pit  I  sunk." 

This  astounding  discovery  held  Peloo  to  silence, 


162  RED  MEEKINS 

and  Meekins  added :  "A  couple  of  fingers  of  dyna- 
mite'll  rip  the  bottom  out  of  that  pit,  an'  we  can  get 
out.  We'll  leave  the  bar  here  so's  we  can't  miss 
the  place,  an'  leave  some  signs  as  we  trail  back,  an* 
when  the  fire's  blowed  over  we'll  turn  the  trick." 

When  they  had  returned  to  their  companions, 
Meekins  explained  that  they  would  stay  there  all 
night,  and  that  they  could  easily  get  out  in  the 
morning. 

"That  takes  one  load  off  our  minds,"  St.  John 
said,  "but  I  can't  get  over  the  horror  of  that  fiend's 
work.  And  his  ghoulish  cackle  about  another 
body — I'm  afraid  it's — that  we — that  is,  that  he 
murdered  the  other  here." 

Speaking  to  Meekins,  Peloo  said:  "I  guess  the 
pinto  man  got  Lord  Happy,  poor  fellow!" 

Opening  his  eyes  that  had  been  closed  in  a  tired 
doze,  Slack  turned  to  Peloo.  "Did  you  say  some- 
thin'  about  Lord  Happy?" 

"Did  you  know  him — do  you  know  anything 
about  him?"  Trout  queried. 

"Did  I  know  him?  Say,  that  was  a  loony  cuss, 
if  you  like!"  Peloo  kicked  Slack  in  the  leg,  but  he 
only  pulled  his  limb  away,  growling:  "Keep  your 
dang  hoofs  off  a  feller,  Peloo !" 

St.  John  looked  up  eagerly.  "You  knew  Lord 
Happy,  Slack?" 

"He  give  me  that  gold  nugget  I  showed  you 
fellers,"  Baldy  answered. 

"Didn't  some  one  else  give  it  to  you,  too,  Baldy? 
First  it  was  Muskwa,  now  it's  Lord  Happy.  I 


FOOL'S  GOLD  163 

guess  to  be  a  good  liar  a  feller's  got  to  have  a  good 
mem'ry,"  Peloo  remarked  angrily. 

Slack  flared  up.  "I  don't  have  to  tell  strangers 
just  where  I  get  things — not  when  they  ask  ques- 
tions they  ain'  got  no  bus'ness  to  ask."  Then  he 
lapsed  into  moody  silence. 

But  he  softened  under  St.  John's  patient  voice 
saying:  "Play  the  game,  Slack;  we're  really  inter- 
ested in  Lord  Happy." 

"You  fellers  come  over  Moose  Crossin',  didn't 
you?"  Baldy  asked  gruffly. 

"Yes,"  St.  John  declared. 

"Well,  about  three  months  ago  I  pulled  through 
that  crick,  an'  this  side  I  finds  a  feller  that's  all  in. 
Say,  his  backbone  was  stickin'  out  in  front;  he  hadn't 
any  belly.  I  guess  it  took  me  'bout  two  days  boilin' 
deer  meat  into  broth,  an'  lettin'  him  suck  a  little  of 
it  down  at  a  time  till  I  got  him  so's  he  could  wiggle 
his  finger.  When  his  tongue  got  so's  it  could  stand 
alone — say!  Peloo  there  can  gab,  but  that  feller 
had  him  skinned  to  death." 

"You  two  was  well  hooked  up,  thdn?"  Peloo 
growled. 

"I'll  give  you  the  story  he  spun.  How  much  of 
it  was  right,  an'  how  much  he  dreamed  while  he  was 
out  of  his  senses  through  starvin',  I  don't  know. 
He  said  him  an'  this  Felix  went  to  stake  a  gold  mine 
they  knowed  of,  an'  they  found  another  feller  on  the 
job.  From  what  I  see  now  I  guess  it  was  this  same 
old  worked-out  mine.  They  all  agreed  to  stake  it 
together — pardners.  Then  they  found  out  it  wasn't 


RED  MEEKINS 

no  good.  I  guess  they  got  in  here.  Felix  wanted 
to  go  out  an'  sell  it  on  the  top  showin'  of  gold  an' 
say  nothin'  'bout  this  cave,  'cause  it  was  pretty  hard 
to  find.  Lord  Happy  claims  he  wouldn't  fall  for 
this  crooked  game,  an'  when  he  was  asleep  Felix  hit 
him  over  the  head  with  a  club  an'  lit  out  at  night 
with  all  their  grub  an'  a  bag  of  gold  nuggets  they'd 
picked  up.  The  other  feller — Barnes  was  his  name 
— got  Lord  Happy  conscious  in  the  morning,  but 
he's  pretty  sick. 

"They  start  after  Felix,  for  it  seems  there's  a 
canoe  at  Moose  Crossing  that  he's  goin'  to  get  out 
with.  About  a  couple  of  miles  from  Moose  River, 
Happy  plays  out;  his  head's  bad.  Barnes  takes  the 
gun  an'  pushes  on  after  Felix.  Lord  Happy  gets 
to  Moose  Crossin'  next  day,  but  the  other  feller 
is  gone.  He  waits  there,  thinkin'  p'r'aps  Barnes'll 
come  back,  or  his  Injun,  Muskwa,  hasn't  turned  up 
yet  with  the  canoe.  He  don't  know  much  after  that 
till  I  find  him.  He  didn't  even  have  a  coat;  lost  it." 

"An'  poor  Barnes  was  lying  there,  murdered,  all 
the  time,  not  fifty  yards  away,"  Peloo  said. 

"How  long  were  you  at  the  Crossin'  after  you 
found  Lord  Happy?"  Meekins  queried. 

"Three  days;  then  we  made  a  short  trail,  for 
that  feller  was  pretty  weak." 

"It  was  after  Slack  left  that  Muskwa  turned  up," 
Meekins  explained  to  St.  John. 

"Lord  Happy  didn't  die,  then?"  St.  John  asked 
eagerly. 

"Die?     I  should  say  not!     He  fed  up,  an'  in 


FOOL'S  GOLD  165 

'bout  two  weeks  he  was  sayin'  the  whole  thing  was 
a  dang-good  joke  on  him;  he  guessed  he'd  never  get 
over  bein'  a  tenderfoot.  He  stayed  with  me  for 
'bout  a  month,  then  McLeod  an'  some  fellers  come 
along  prospectin',  an'  he  went  off  with  'em." 

St.  John  stood  up,  and,  holding  out  his  hand  to 
Baldy,  said:  "You  saved  the  life  of  a  relative  of 
mine,  Slack." 

"That  wasn't  much;  I  wasn't  very  busy  just  then. 
I  ought  to  get  paid  for  'em  goods  that  was  burned 
up  in  the  cache,  though,"  and  Slack  fixed  his  green- 
gray  eyes  on  St.  John  compellingly. 

The  Englishman  laughed,  "You'll  get  that  sev- 
eral times  over,"  he  declared. 

Slack's  story  completed  the  explanation  of  Felix's 
actions.  As  he  had  failed  to  keep  them  from  dis- 
covering his  crime  and  the  worthlessness  of  the 
mine,  he  had  sought  to  destroy  them  all. 

That  night  was  a  fight  against  the  deadly  car- 
bonic-gas fumes  that  drove  through  the  opening 
in  the  roof  of  their  cave,  but  in  the  morning  they 
judged  that  the  full  fury  of  the  fire  had  passed  over. 

Meekins  blew  out  the  bottom  of  the  test  pit,  and 
they  soon  stood  on  the  fire-swept  mound  of  rock.  A 
heavy  rain  was  putting  out  what  was  left  of  the  fire. 

Meekins  led  them  to  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  say- 
ing: "Felix  didn't  have  no  other  place  to  crawl  into 
but  this;  he  didn't  know  that  the  gas  would  smother 
him.  I  think  you'll  find  him  in  there." 

Baldy  sprang  forward.     "If  he's  dead  I  want  to 


1(56  RED  MEEKINS 

see  him."  When  Slack  came  out  he  said:  "He's 
there." 

"I  guess  we'll  cover  him  up  with  a  big  heap  of 
stones,"  Meekins  said;  "he  don'  even  deserve  that." 

"Then  we'll  get  back  an'  tell  Father  Perdue  that 
his  mine  ain't  no  good,"  Peloo  added. 

Meekins  turned  to  the  Englishman,  saying  apolo- 
getically: "I  guess  you're  out  your  expenses  this 
trip.  I'm  sorry  that  the  thing  ain't  no  good.  If  I 
could've  done  better " 

St.  John  interrupted:  "By  Jove,  you  saved  me 
buying  a  bad  mine,  and  between  us  we've  bagged 
the  swindler  and  murderer.  Better  still,  my  dear 
fellow,"  and  he  put  his  hand  on  Meekins's  arm,  "I'd 
rather  find  Lord  Happy  alive  than  a  cave  full  of 
gold." 


II 

WILD  OATS 

RED  MEEKINS  had  his  collection  of  antique  silver 
hidden  under  a  large  boulder  of  conglomerate  rock 
half  a  mile  from  the  Silver  Ledge  shafthouse. 
When  even  the  professors  of  geology  and  miner- 
alogy had  disputed  with  heat  the  age  of  these 
samples  of  ancient  art,  Red  had  troubled  little  over 
the  matter,  being  more  largely  interested  in  the 
subtle  endeavour  of  acquiring  his  contorted  slabs 
of  pure  silver  quietly  and  the  equally  difficult  busi- 
ness of  finding  a  secretive  purchaser. 

In  short,  Red  was  "high  grading,"  assimilating 
the  precious  metal  from  the  sorting  board  of  his 
employers,  the  Silver  Ledge  Company. 

This  high  grading  was  a  peculiarly  fine  point  in 
the  ethics  of  stealing;  it  was  looked  upon  as  some- 
thing akin  to  beating  the  customs.  Meekins  found 
a  touch  of  exhilaration  in  outwitting  the  company's 
two  detectives.  The  detectives  worked  as  ordinary 
miners;  they  slept  in  the  one  big  room  of  the  bunk- 
house,  which  contained  thirty  beds;  they  ate  at  the 
table  with  the  men,  and  fancied  that  they  were  un- 
suspected; but  Red  knew.  A  massive -jawed  fighting 
bulldog  was  turned  loose  nightly  in  the  ore-house 
to  guard  the  sacks  of  high  grade  ore;  but  Red 

167 


168  RED  MEEKINS 

Meekins  rubbed  shoulders  with  the  two  detectives 
as  fellow  workmen,  shied  a  rock  at  the  bulldog  if  he 
saw  him  nosing  about  alone,  and  went  on  high 
grading. 

It  was  a  species  of  woodsman's  instinct,  some- 
thing akin  to  a  sixth  sense,  that  told  Meekins  some- 
body had  found  his  cache  of  silver  under  the  big 
rock.  For  two  sweet  moonlight  nights  he  watched 
Farren  and  Riley,  the  detectives,  as  they  sat  in 
vigil  near  his  cache  waiting  to  pounce  upon  the 
unknown  depositor.  On  the  third  night  dark  clouds 
smothered  the  moon,  and  Meekins  took  his  little 
bag  of  ore  from  under  the  very  noses  of  the  watch- 
ers and  hid  it  in  a  badger  hole  a  mile  away. 

In  the  way  of  establishing  an  alibi  should  his  ab- 
sence from  the  bunkhouse  cause  an  inquiry,  Meek- 
ins,  after  he  had  hidden  the  silver,  called  at  the  log 
shack  of  Jack  Gray,  owner  of  the  Little  Star  mining 
claim. 

"How's  she  showin'  up  ?"  Red  asked  as  he  took  a 
seat  on  Gray's  bunk.  "How's  the  vein  lookin'?" 

"Not  too  bad,"  Gray  answered,  with  the  con- 
servative caution  of  an  oldtime  prospector. 

"I  heerd  you  shootin'  to-day,"  Meekins  offered. 
"Hope  you  ripped  up  a  silver  sidewalk — you  had 
calcite  enough  before." 

Gray  ignored  the  matter  of  silver  sidewalks  and 
passed  the  speaker  a  plug  of  tobacco,  saying,  "Fill 
your  pipe,  Red." 

Red  lighted  the  pipe  and  drew  at  it  with  tantaliz- 
ing deliberation.  He  was  thinking.  Evidently 


WILD  OATS  169 

Gray's  shot  had  discovered  no  bonanza;  his  whole 
manner  held  the  sombreness  of  defeat.  Meekins 
finally  hazarded,  "I  heerd  you'd  sold  the  Little  Star, 
Jack." 

"Well,"  Gray  answered,  shuffling  about  the  shack 
as  he  spoke,  "I've  sold  it,  an'  I  ain't.  Two  hundred 
thousand  if  the  vein  shows  native  silver;  that's  the 
bargain,  Red.  Mr.  Downs  was  to  come  to-morrow 
to  look  at  the  vein." 

uAn'  the  mineral,  Jack,  got  it?" 

"Well,  we're  hopin'.     She  looks  good  to  me." 

"He  ain't  got  it  yet,"  Meekins  muttered  to  him- 
self. And  somehow  a  thought  of  his  own  little 
silver  horde  came  tangently  into  his  mind  like  a 
correlative  factor.  Here  was  a  trinity  of  holdings 
that,  concreted  into  one,  would  certainly  be  ad- 
vantageous. 

"Say,"  he  ejaculated  as  he  fussed  at  the  pipe  bowl 
with  his  knife,  loosening  the  tobacco,  "I'd  like  to 
see  you  soak  that  Englishman  that's  bluffin'  round 
here  'bout  buyin'  a  mine.  A  mine  !  It's  a  pup  Bank 
of  England  that  Bloater  Bangs  wants."  - 

"Boultbee  Downs  is  the  gent's  name,  Red;  you've 
got  his  handle  sorter  twisted,"  Gray  advised. 

"His  name  don't  cut  no  ice,  Jack;  he's  a  porky 
little  stiff!  I  meets  him  kinder  offhand  like  at  the 
Nugget  Hotel  last  night  an'  makes  a  play  to  boost 
the  Little  Star  for  you,  Jack,  an'  what  d'you  think 
Bolster  &  Co.  hands  out  to  me?" 

Gray  chuckled.  "Said  he  hadn't  been  introduced; 
gave  you  the  wall  eye  an'  cut  away,  eh?" 


170  RED  MEEKINS 

"Kinder  like  that,  Jack,  only  wuss,  more  cold 
blooded.  Says  he,  takin'  a  silver  cigarette  case  from 
his  pocket  an'  lightin'  one  of  'em  coffin  nails,  'I  have 
in  my  service  an  engineer  quite  competent  to  advise 
me  of  the  desirability  of  such  properties  as  I  wish 
to  purchase.'  Holy  Snakes!  Could  you  beat  it?" 

Gray  chuckled  again;  then  his  face  relaxed  into 
its  habitual  solemnity.  "English  is  no  dub,  Red; 
he  knows  what  o'clock  it  is,  He's  got  the  coin  at 
his  back,  an'  I'd  like  to  sell  him  the  Little  Star 
for  two  hundred  thousand.  I  don't  know  nothin' 
about  floatin'  a  company — an'  God  knows  some  of 
the  veins  about  here  is  as  lean  as  a  razorback  hog! 
The  Little  Star  has  got  mighty  good  indications  of 
silver;  but — "  Gray  walked  over  to  a  cupboard, 
swung  the  door  open,  brought  a  black  bottle  forth 
by  the  neck,  and,  handing  a  glass  to  Meekins,  added, 
"By  the  hokey !  if  I  clean  up  this  time,  f armin'  for 
mine!  No  more  minin',  never  no  more  again!" 

Meekins  laughed  disagreeably. 

"Heerd  a  man  talk  like  that  afore,  eh,  Red?" 
Gray  growled  sarcastically. 

"Sorter  that  way;  but  they  gener'lly  held  a  better 
hand." 

"You  ain't  seen  none  of  my  cards.  What  d'you 
know  about  the  Little  Star?"  Gray  snapped. 

"Nothin',  nothin'.  Jus'  kinder  mind  readin', 
that's  all. 

Gray  vouchsafed  no  answer  to  this  sally;  but 
stood  looking,  a  suspicion  of  sullen  anger  in  his 
heavy  eyes,  at  Meekins.  After  a  little  he  spoke. 


WILD  OATS  171 

"If  you're  good  at  mind  readin',  pVaps  you  could 
tell  the  fortune  of  the  Little  Star,  whether  there's 
a  big  vein  like  the  Lawson  or  the  Crown  Reserve 
in  her." 

"I  can  tell  you  how  to  put  that  Cockney's  two 
hundred  thousand  in  your  pocket,  if  you  want  to 
know,"  Meekins  answered. 

"Tellin'  is  one  thing,  an'  figurin'  the  dollars  is 
another." 

"You  ripped  up  the  vein  to-day,  didn't  you, 
Jack?"  Meekins  asked. 

"I  opened  her  up  some." 

"An'  you  didn't  find  nothin'  but  calcite,  with 
p'r'aps  a  few  colours  of  cobalt;  ain't  that  right, 
Jack?" 

"S'posin'  it  is,  that  ain't  your  business,  Red! 
You  didn't  grubstake  me,  did  you?" 

Meekins  ignored  the  irrelevant  aftermath. 
"Well,  when  Johnny  Bull  cocks  his  one-eyed  winder 
at  that  hole,  he  don't  buy;  he  just  says,  'Ah,  by 
Jove !  Not  quite  up  to  the  mark,  me  dear  feller,' 
an'  skins  back  to  the  hotel  for  a  bath."'  Meekins 
grinned  as  he  heard  Gray  cursing  under  his  breath. 
"But  if  he  sees  some  nice  fat  chunks  of  silver  there, 
then  he  'diplomatically  opens  negotiations,'  don't 
he? — that's  the  way  he  puts  it, — an'  it  ends  by  you 
gettin'  the  dough." 

"An'  if  in  the  mornin'  I  get  a  letter  sayin'  an 
aunt's  left  me  a  million  dollars,  Red,  I'll  buy  you  a 
bottle  of  whisky  an'  a  monkey  on  a  stick,  an'  you 
can  have  a  high  old  time.  See?" 


172  RED  MEEKINS 

"Now  what  I  propose,"  Meekins  shoved  both 
hands  into  his  pockets  in  utter  contempt  of  Gray's 
misplaced  humour,  "is  to  let  the  gent  from  London- 
derry see  enough  silver  to  knock  that  glass  plumb 
out  of  his  eye." 

Gray  stared  in  astonishment  at  Meekins.  "He's 
only  had  one  drink,"  he  muttered;  then  he  added 
aloud,  in  heavy  sarcasm,  "That's  a  good  idea,  Red. 
You  can  come  over  in  the  mornin',  turn  this  forty 
acres  upside  down,  an'  just  let  the  silver  spill  out. 
I'll  give  you  ten  per  cent.  Kinder  wish  I'd  talked 
this  over  with  you  afore." 

"I'll  take  the  ten  per  cent.,"  Meekins  offered  in 
fee  simple  for  the  whole  statement;  "an'  as  to  how, 
it's  this  wise.  We  just  fill  that  calcite  vein  up  with 
cement  an'  gravel  carryin'  about  three  thousand 
ounces  of  silver  to  the  ton,  an'  on  the  day  as  speci- 
fied by  Johnny  Bull  you  put  in  a  shot  an'  loosen  her 
up.  There  can't  be  no  deception,  gentlemen,  'cause 
you  have  your  sleeves  rolled  up.  See?" 

Gray  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed. 
"Meekins,  you've  got  a  great  head — for  hammerin' 
a  drill.  You  oughter've  been  a  revivalist,  'cause  the 
people  don't  ask  too  many  questions  in  that  perfes- 
sion.  What  d'you  s'pose  they'd  say  when  they 
know  I'd  been  round  buyin'  cement  an'  pieces  of 
silver  to  stick  in  a  vein,  eh?" 

"I  got  the  silver  right  enough,"  Meekins  said 
quietly;  "got  her  cached  within  ten  minutes  totin'  of 
this  spot.  An'  I'll  jus'  borrow  the  cement  from  the 
Silver  Ledge.  They're  puttin'  in  a  new  engine  bed 


WILD  OATS  173 

on  vein  fourteen,  an'  there's  tons  of  cement  lyin' 
round  there  loose.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  lend  me  a 
bag  to  bring  the  stuff.  It  wouldn't  do  to  hook  a  full 
bag,  'cause  they're  all  tallied  up." 

Red's  cold  blooded  scheme  of  knavery  was  like  a 
heavy  body  blow  to  Gray.  He  sat  for  a  long  time 
pulling  at  his  pipe;  the  pop-pop  of  his  lips  as  he 
shot  forth  the  smoke  crackled  on  the  heavy  silence 
of  the  room  like  the  bursting  of  horse  chestnuts  in  a 
fire  of  leaves.  Through  twenty  years  of  scorching 
heat  and  blizzard  cold  he  had  sought  the  pot  of 
gold  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbow.  Twice  he  had 
touched  the  hem  of  the  purple  robe  of  wealth  and 
had  been  well  kicked  in  the  ribs  by  the  foot  of  ad- 
versity hidden  beneath.  At  that  very  link  in  his 
chain  of  thought  he  worded  this  somewhat  more 
prosaically  for  Meekins,  "I  got  a  raw  deal  twice  in 
my  life,  Red—" 

"I  know,"  Meekins  interrupted.  "When  Hardy 
beat  you  out  of  the  Golden  Oriole." 

"Yes,  that  was  'bout  the  only  time  I  was  chuck 
full  of  murder.  I'd  Ve  killed  Hardy  if  he  hadn't 
skun  out,  I'd  Ve  ripped  him  up  like  an  ol'  rubber 
boot !  Then  I  sold  the  One  Horse  mine  to  a  bunch 
from  Pittsburgh —  But  what's  the  use  of  talkin'  ? 
It  makes  me  dead  sore !  I  never  got  nothin'  out  of 
it  'cept  the  first  payment." 

"Well,  you  got  yer  chance  to  break  more  than 
even  with  the  game  now." 

"I  don't  call  it  gettin'  even  to  turn  crook  just  be- 
cause you've  been  bunkoed  yerself,"  Gray  argued. 


174  RED  MEEKINS 

There  was  a  lack  of  fire  in  his  tone  that  Meekins 
caught;  there  was  a  dragging  intonation  as  if  the 
speaker  was  uttering  an  abstract  thought  with  his 
mind  dwelling  on  something  more  impressive. 

"Bein'  a  crook  is  gettin'  caught,  I  figger,"  Meek- 
ins  declared  doggedly.  "You've  heerd,  an'  I've 
heerd,  of  a  good  many  deals  up  in  this  field,  an'  the 
whole  boilin'  of  lawyers  an'  Gov'men  legal  depart- 
ment is  jus'  up  to  their  armpits  tryin'  to  give  some- 
body some  kind  of  a  square  deal.  Minin's  kinder 
like  swimmin', — you  leave  your  Sunday  clo'es  to 
home  when  you  go  at  it." 

"That's  right  enough,  Red;  but  I  don't  lose  no 
sleep  'cause  the  other  feller's  crooked." 

"No;  an'  they  don't  lose  no  sleep  if  you  ain't  got 
a  nickel  in  your  pocket.  The  gent  as  gets  your  mine 
for  two  hundred  thousand  will  soak  the  public  with 
it  as  a  million-dollar  company — or  perhaps  five." 

Gray  sat  sullenly  silent,  a  heavy  frown  on  his  face, 
and  Meekins  asked  abruptly,  "Ain't  the  Little  Star 
no  good,  Jack?  It's  close  up  to  the  Silver  Ledge, 
an'  the  veins  there  is  packed  like  herrin's  in  a  bar'l." 

"Why,  it's  sure  got  to  turn  out  a  good  mine," 
Gray  answered;  "but  a  feller  can't  cross  trench 
forty  acres  of  land  in  a  month,  an'  I  jus'  ain't 
dropped  onto  no  big  vein  yet." 

"Then  don't  be  a  fool!"  Meekins  advised.  "You 
ain't  cheatin'  nobody  by  lettin'  'em  have  the  Little 
Star  at  two  hundred  thousand;  only  if  you  had 
that  money  in  the  bank  I  guess  you  an'  the  wife'd 


WILD  OATS  175 

feel  you  could  afford  a  little  holiday  an'  be  set  up  for 
life." 

Gray  rose  and  paced  the  floor.  In  an  aimless 
manner  he  wandered  to  the  cupboard  and  brought 
forth  the  black  bottle  again.  Meekins  was  con- 
siderable of  a  drinker  himself;  but  he  gasped  as 
Gray  tossed  off  half  a  tumbler  of  the  raw  whisky. 

"That'll  brace  you,  Jack,"  he  ventured.  "You've 
got  yer  chance  right  now  to  make  yer  pile.  I'll  bet 
you've  swore  a  dozen  times,  since  you've  been  minin' 
an'  seen  all  the  crooked  work  that's  bein'  done,  that 
if  you  ever  got  a  chance  to  make  a  big  stake  you'd 
make  it!  Didn't  you,  Jack?" 

"Yes,  I've  got  hot  under  the  collar  when  I  knowed 
the  fellers  was  playin'  me  fer  a  sucker  when  I  got 
done  up;  but  I  ain't  never  lied  about  a  mine  yet. 
Them's  two  things  I  never  shot  off  hot  air  about  yet, 


a  woman  or  a  mine. 

u 


Course  you  didn't,  Jack.  An'  you'll  go  on  jus' 
that  way,  an'  the  fellers  as  makes  the  pile'll  give  you 
a  job  when  you're  old  sortin'  ore  on  the  dump.  An' 
as  for  lyin',  you  ain't  got  to  do  none.  I'll  fix  up  that 
vein,  an'  when  Bleater-Down  comes  here  to  see  there 
ain't  no  deception,  you  put  the  shot  in  an'  let  him 
take  the  samples  of  ore  away  to  get  an  assay.  When 
his  assay  man  hands  him  out  two  or  three  big  but- 
tons of  silver  he'll  be  that  sure  he's  cheatin'  you  in 
gettin'  the  Little  Star  at  that  price,  he  won't  sleep 
till  he's  got  you  to  accept  a  check." 

Meekins  rose  in  his  eagerness  and  put  his  hand 
on  Gray's  arm,  saying,  "Get  me  a  grain  bag  out  of 


176  RED  MEEKINS 

your  stable,  Jack.  I'm  dashed  if  I  don't  work  all 
night  pluggin'  that  vein!  Two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  ain't  made  every  night.  Now,  don't  get 
grouchy,  Jack,"  he  coaxed,  as  Gray  drew  his  arm 
away;  "you've  got  a  chance  at  two  hundred  thou- 
sand sure,  an'  if  you  turn  it  down  p'r'aps  your 
claim'll  peter  out  same's  the  Lone  Pine  claim  did. 
It  broke  oF  Saunders,  broke  his  pockets  an'  broke 
his  heart.  Ain't  he  now  in  the  asylum  diggin'  little 
ditches  in  a  wooden  table  with  a  pocketknife, 
swearin'  he's  got  the  biggest  silver  mine  in  the 
world?  He  could' ve  sold  for  half  a  million,  an' 
wouldn't." 

Rugged  and  strong  as  Gray  appeared,  yet  there 
was  pliability  to  his  moral  fibre.  In  the  lesser  mat- 
ter of  taking  a  drink — too  many  drinks — he  had 
always  yielded  to  the  friendly  "Come  on,  Jack,  old 
boy!"  Hardly  acquiescing  in  the  scheme,  still  re- 
belling weakly  against  it,  Gray  yielded  to  the  pres- 
sure of  Red's  hand  on  his  arm,  and  the  two  went 
out  to  a  little  log  stable  that  held  Gray's  hoisting 
gear,  the  bucket  horse. 

"Here's  an  empty!"  Meekins  exclaimed,  as  he 
peered  about  by  the  light  of  his  miner's  candle. 
"I'll  take  this  bag  an'  get  busy,  Jack.  I'll  be  back 
in  an  hour."  Suddenly  a  thought  struck  him.  "Say, 
where's  the  two  fellers  that  works  on  the  vein?" 

"They're  boardin'  over  to  McCann's  bunkhouse." 

"Well,  you  give  'em  a  day  off  to-morrow.  Say 
the  ol'  boss's  sick  an'  can't  hoist  none.  Keep  'em 


WILD  OATS  177 

away  from  the  vein  till  the  cement  gets  sot  good  an' 
hard.  Now  I'm  off!" 

Meekins  turned  at  the  door  and,  scanning  Gray's 
face,  asked,  "D'you  want  to  put  a  hand  to  this 
job?  'Cause  if  you  don't  I  can  do  it  alone." 

"There  ain't  no  call  for  you  to  do  it  alone,  Red. 
I  don't  see  no  difference  'tween  helpin'  an'  knowin' 
it's  done.  Guess  I  never  was  learned  in  them  fine 
points  of  lyin'.  I'll  help  salt  the  mine, — 'cause 
that's  what  it  is,  Red, — and  if  the  Englishman  gets 
wise  to  it  an'  asks  me,  I  won't  hand  him  out  no  fairy 
tale ;  I'll  just  get  riled  an'  buffalo  him  off  the  forty 
acres  by  the  seat  of  his  pants.  I  feel  sorter  mad  at 
myself  now." 

"You  ain't  weakenin',  Jack?" 

"No,  I  ain't  weakenin'.  It's  a  kind  of  disease 
I  never  get.  I've  been  bunkoed,  an'  made  use  of 
by  fellers  with  money  for  more'n  twenty  years,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  see  this  through.  P'r'aps  I  can  sorter 
square  it  by  doin'  more  good  with  that  money — if 
I  get  it — than  them  rich  promoters.  I  know  a  slue 
of  poor  people  down  in  my  county  that'll  throw  a 
powerful  lot  of  prayers  after  I've  done  with  'em. 
I've  jus'  been  itchin'  to  help  some  of  'em  out!" 

Meekins  stood  for  a  second  scratching  the  tan- 
gled mop  of  red  bristling  hair;  then  he  said,  "Takin' 
one  thing  with  another.  Jack,  I  figger  I'd  best  do 
this  job  all  by  myself." 

"I  don't  want  to  shirk " 

"Shirk  nothin'!  I  wasn't  nursin'  your  feelin's, 
Jack;  but  that  silver  I've  got  is  dead  set  again' 


178  RED  MEEKINS 

lettin'  anybody  see  it,  an'  as  long  as  nobody's  got  to 
swear  in  court  they  see  me  with  it,  why  I've  got  a 
good  alibi,  haven't  I,  if  the  Silver  Ledge  people 
gits  on  my  trail?  You  jus'  go  by-by  in  your  little 
bed,  Jack,  an'  in  the  mornin'  you'll  find  that  tear  in 
the  vein  all  nice  healed  up." 

Then  Meekins  slipped  into  the  scant  forest  of 
birch  and  poplar  and  his  shadow  was  soon  merged 
with  its  gloom. 

Gray  went  back  to  his  shack  and  the  toiler's  sleep, 
and  from  the  storehouse  of  his  mind  stalked  forth 
grim  entanglements.  One  time  he  was  lying  help- 
less while  Meekins,  with  sardonic  deliberation, 
incased  him  in  a  fast  solidifying  sarcophagus  of 
cement.  Again  he  was  throwing  a  shower  of  silver 
coins  to  a  rabble  of  starvelings.  All  night  his 
dreams,  with  chameleon-like  affiliation,  draped  their 
hideous  forms  in  the  drab  of  guilt.  Yes,  all  night 
he  dreamed;  for  at  dawn  with  a  mighty  effort  he 
swept  aside  the  avalanche  of  banknotes  that,  a  foot 
deep,  were  smothering  him,  and  sprang  to  the  floor, 
his  blanket  still  in  his  trembling  grasp. 

Then  he  dressed  and  went  down  to  the  little  pit, 
six  feet  deep,  that  had  been  sunk  on  the  vein. 
Where  yesterday  the  jagged  gash  left  by  the  dyna- 
mite shot  had  disfigured  the  bottom  of  the  pit  now 
a  smooth  dull  gray  surface  met  his  eye.  Meekins 
had  done  a  neat  job  of  concrete  work. 

Gray  threw  a  shovelful  of  loose  sand  down  to 
cover  the  evidence  of  Red's  handicraft  and  took  his 


WILD  OATS  179 

way  to  McCann's  to  tell  his  men  there  would  be  no 
work  for  that  day. 

"Now  for  Boultbee  Downs  of  London!"  Gray 
muttered. 

A  telephone  message  from  the  office  of  the  Black 
Rock  mine,  giving  the  sick  horse  excuse,  brought 
much  imperious  expostulation  from  Boultbee 
Downs,  and  the  latter's  visit  of  inspection  was  post- 
poned for  two  days. 

On  the  second  day  Boultbee  Downs,  with  an  en- 
gineer and  a  secretary,  drove  over  to  the  Little 
Star.  He  was  rotund  of  body  and  manner.  As  Red 
Meekins  had  described  him,  he  seemed  to  think  the 
Lord  had  built  a  straight-away  chute  through  the 
world  for  him  with  all  rights  preserved. 

"I've  been  trenchin'  for  a  couple  of  days,"  Gray 
explained,  "tryin'  to  see  how  far  the  mineralized 
vein  I  picked  up  ran." 

"Ah,  my  dear  fellow!"  Boultbee  Downs  conde- 
scended. "By  'mineralized'  just  what  do  you  mean, 
now?  There's  cobalt,  and  nickel,  and  smaltite,  and 
a  tremendous  lot  of  other  'ites,  while  all  I'm  inter- 
ested in  is  silver.  Now,  definitely  speaking,  Mr. 
— ah — Gray,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  inform 
Mr.  Forsythe  here  just  what  you  found?" 

"Well,"  Gray  answered  slowly,  "I  kinder  thought 
it'd  be  a  good  idee  for  you  to  see  the  shot  put  in, 
and " 

Boultbee  Downs  interrupted  fussily.  "Sample 
the  veins  ourselves,  eh,  Gray?  Seems  deuced  fair, 
Forsythe,  eh?" 


180  RED  MEEKINS 

"Yes,  sir,"  the  engineer  answered  deferentially. 

"I  say,  Forsythe,  by  Jove !  Quite  an  innovation 
finding  one  of  these  mining  fellows  wanting  to  play 
the  game  fair!" 

"I  drilled  a  hole,"  Gray  advised,  "and  I'll  have 
Jorgsen  put  the  dynamite  in." 

"Quite  right,  quite  right,"  Downs  declared.  "Ex- 
peditiously,  of  course,  for  I  have  a  stupendous  num- 
ber of  things  to  attend  to." 

Just  as  the  charge  was  rammed  home,  the  fuse 
lighted,  and  the  men  were  scuttling  to  places  of 
safety,  Red  Meekins  drifted  casually  on  the  scene. 

"Thought  I'd  kinder  like  to  see  the  fun,"  he  said 
as  he  crouched  behind  a  rock  with  Gray.  "I  want  to 
see  that  Cheapside  chap  bulge  his  eyes  just  for  onct 
when  he  cuddles  one  of  my  nuggets.  I'll  bet  he  tells 
you  the  vein  doesn't  run  more'n  two  hundred  ounces 
to  the  ton,  an'  tries  to  beat  you  down  to  a  hundred 
thousand.  There  she  goes!"  he  exclaimed  as  the 
earth  trembled  under  their  feet  and  an  explosive 
roar  heralded  a  shower  of  rock  debris.  "I  strung 
the  silver  pretty  well  along,"  Red  whispered  as  they 
went  toward  the  shaft.  "Hope  it  didn't  get  mislaid, 
none  of  it." 

It  was  Boultbee  Downs  himself  who  picked  up  a 
slab  of  silver  the  size  of  his  own  fat  palm,  to  the 
side  of  which  clung  a  piece  of  Red's  conglomerate. 
Meekins  saw  him  pick  it  up;  but  turned  his  back 
quickly,  and  Downs,  without  comment,  passed  it  to 
Forsythe,  who  dropped  the  metal  into  his  leather 


WILD  OATS  181 

bag.  In  the  rent  the  shot  had  made  from  two  or 
three  places  undoubtedly  silver  protruded. 

"Yes,"  Gray  said  in  answer  to  a  question  from 
Downs,  "I  got  a  couple  of  pieces  of  silver  f  arder  on 
in  the  vein  an'  thought  it  looked  pretty  good." 

Downs  exhibited  a  tremendous  anxiety  to  get 
away,  also  to  carry  with  him  as  many  fragments  of 
conglomerate  as  might  be  had.  An  ore  sack  that 
was  in  his  buggy  was  filled.  Quite  casually,  just  as 
he  was  about  to  step  into  his  conveyance,  he  turned 
to  Gray  and  said: 

"Ah,  Mr.  Gray,  I'm  a  man  of  business — yes,  sir, 
of  what  I  might  term  definite  business  ar- 
rangements. We  have  found — haven't  we,  Mr. 
Forsythe?"  he  appealed  to  the  engineer — "that  bar- 
gains in  this  mining  region  are  like  piecrust,  made 
to  be  broken.  Ha-ha !  And  we  waste  a  great  deal 
of  valuable  time  through  having  deals  repudiated. 
My  secretary,  Mr.  Smythe,  has  a  little  form  of 
sale  which  you  might  sign.  It  simply  gives  me  an 
option  on  your  mine  for  forty-eight  hours.  I  may 
say  that  in  the  event  of  the  assay  of  these  samples 
being  satisfactory  I  shall  close  the  deal  at  once. 
Now  what  figure  shall  we  say,  Mr.  Gray,  twenty 
thousand  pounds?" 

Gray  felt  Meekins  kick  him  in  the  calf  of  the  leg, 
and  he  answered,  "Two  hundred  thousand  dollars 
is  what  I  said  I'd  sell  for;  but  if  that  don't  go  the 
price  of  the  Little  Star  is  boosted  to  half  a  million 
now." 

Boultbee  Downs  gasped,  and  hurriedly  drawing  a 


182  RED  MEEKINS 

pencil  from  his  pocket  inserted  some  figures,  saying, 
"Ah,  my  dear  fellow,  you  agreed  to  sell  at  two 
hundred  thousand." 

"An'  I  gen'rally  keep  my  word,"  Gray  asserted 
as  he  signed  the  paper. 

"You'll  hear  from  me  within  forty-eight  hours," 
Boultbee  Downs  advised  as  he  clambered  into  the 
buggy.  "If  the  assay  is  satisfactory,  I'll  have  the 
regular  papers  and  a  check  waiting  for  you." 

The  two  miners  watched  Downs  till  a  turn  in 
the  road  hid  him. 

"Somethin'll  go  wrong,"  Gray  muttered,  speak- 
ing as  if  to  himself.  '  'Taint  my  luck  to  make  a 
win  like  this." 

"Hit  yourself  over  the  liver,  Jack!"  Red  advised. 
"That  shark  thinks  he's  skinnin'  you,  an'  he'll  have 
the  Little  Star  twinklin'  in  his  shirt  front  afore  to- 
morrow night.  I  near  bust  tryin'  to  keep  from 
laughin'  when  I  see  him  palm  that  chunk  of  silver. 
I  took  a  day  off  from  the  work  just  to  enjoy  the 
show." 

Meekins  spent  the  day  and  evening  with  Gray. 
He  had  picked  out  a  dozen  investments  for  the 
twenty  thousand  he  was  to  get  out  of  the  deal. 

It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  he  had  just  finished, 
to  the  minutest  detail,  a  description  of  a  dairy  busi- 
ness he  was  going  to  start  in  his  native  town,  when 
there  came  a  sharp  rap  at  the  door. 

"Say,  what  did  I  tell  you,  Jack?"  Meekins  whis- 
pered. "That's  Bolter  Jones,  I  bet  a  hundred.  He 
just  couldn't  sleep  till  he  closed  the  deal." 


WILD  OATS  183 

"Come  in!"  Gray  called  sharply. 

As  the  door  swung  open  Red  gave  an  involuntary 
gasp  of  delight.  It  was  the  secretary,  Smythe.  He 
was  a  thin  young  man  with  straw  coloured  eyebrows. 
Employment  with  Boultbee  Downs  had  negatived 
him  into  a  proper  suave  humility. 

"Mr.  Gray?"  he  said  tentatively. 

"That's  me,"  Gray  answered. 

The  secretary  drew  from  his  pocket  a  large  offi- 
cial envelope. 

Meekins  stretched  his  leg  under  the  table  and 
gently  rubbed  the  toe  of  his  boot  up  and  down 
Gray's  shin.  It  was  surely  a  check  for  at  least 
half  of  the  two  hundred  thousand,  Red  whispered 
to  himself. 

"Mr.  Boultbee  Downs  had  me  drive  over  to 
present  this  letter  with  his  compliments  to  Mr. 
Gray,"  the  secretary  said.  Then  he  put  his  hat 
on  and  turned  to  the  door. 

"Hadn't  you  best  wait  and  see  if  there's — he 
might  be  wantin'  an  answer  or  somethfn',"  Gray 
suggested. 

"Mr.  Boultbee  Downs  advised  me  there  would  be 
no  answer,"  Smythe  replied,  and  melted  away  into 
the  shadows  of  the  night. 

"Well,  I'm  dashed!"  Gray  ejaculated  softly. 
"That's  kinder  queer!"  He  turned  the  envelope 
over  in  his  hands,  eyeing  it  apprehensively. 

Meekins  stretched  a  big  hand  which  carried  on  its 
back  a  bristle  of  red  hair,  saying,  "Let  me  see  her, 
Jack!"  Red  held  the  envelope  between  his  eyes  and 


184  RED  MEEKINS 

the  lamp.  "Bet  you  five  dollars  there's  a  check  in 
that,  Jack!  I  can  see  a  pinky  end  of  somethin',"  he 
said,  handing  the  letter  back  to  Gray. 

"What  was  that  straw  coloured  ink  slinger  in 
such  a  hurry  to  get  away  for,  Red?  Seems  to  me  as 
though  there's  somethin'  gone  wrong." 

"Wrong  nothin' !  Don't  you  understand! 
Bloater  Brown  was  afeared  you  might  want  to  call 
the  deal  off  to  his  secretary — don't  you  see? — an' 
he'd  be  a  sort  of  witness — an'  me  bein'  here,  too, 
to  hear  it.  But  he's  served  the  check  on  you — it's 
like  a  summons.  He  didn't  want  to  give  you  no 
chance  to  refuse  the  money.  Oh,  you're  bound  up 
to  the  sale  now!" 

"I  hope  you're  right,  Red;  but  danged  if  I  don't 
sorter  hate  to  open  her  up !  I  got  a  kinder  feelin' 

that Well,  it's  just  this  way,  I  never  did  have 

no  luck!" 

"There  couldn't  nothin'  go  wrong,"  Red  objected. 
"He  ain't  seen  the  mine  since  he  took  them  nuggets 
away.  He's  just  rushed  the  assay  an'  was  afeared 
you'd  find  how  rich  it  had  panned  out  afore  he 
closed  the  deal.  Here's  a  knife.  Slit  her  open  an' 
see  how  big  the  check  is.  I  never  felt  so  sure  of 
anything  in  my  life." 

"Well,  here  goes!"  Gray  drew  a  big  breath, 
shoved  the  knife  through  an  end  of  the  envelope, 
and  as  he  inserted  his  fingers  added,  "It  sorter 
makes  me  creepy." 

Red  leaned  far  over  the  table,  his  brown  eyes 
electric  with  excitement,  as  Gray  drew  forth  a  some- 


WILDCATS  185 

what  bulky  fold  of  papers.  "What  did  I  say?" 
yelled  Red.  "There's  the  proper  agreement  an* 
all,  I  bet!  Hello!  What  in  thunder's  this?"  A 
small,  neatly  folded  parcel  had  fallen  from  the 
papers  in  Gray's  hand. 

"P'r'aps  that's  a  diamond  pin  present  for  you," 
Red  opined  as  he  picked  it  up.  "But  first  see  if 
there  ain't  a  check  there,  an'  what  Bloater  says." 

Gray  opened  the  papers  and  discovered  the  pre- 
liminary agreement  he  had  signed  earlier  in  the  day. 

"That's  the  old  one  back,"  Red  advised.  "He's 
got  the  new  ones  all  drawed  up.  What  does  Bloater 
Jones  say,  Jack?" 

Gray  ran  his  eyes  slowly  down  a  typewritten 
letter,  and  Meekins  saw  his  face  turn  to  an  ashy 
hue  and  his  heavy  lip  stiffen  to  hard  lines. 

"What  does  he  say,  Jack?  Old  man,  there  ain't 
nothin'  gone  wrong?  He  ain't  squealin',  is  he?" 

"Gimme  that  little  package,  Red!" 

Gray  with  trembling  fingers  opened  the  package, 
and  Meekins  saw  nestling  in  the  white  paper  half 
a  dozen  grains  of  discoloured  oats. 

"I  don't  understand,  Jack!"  he  gasped.  "What's 
it  all  about?  What's  that  got  to  do  with  Bloater 
Brown  an'  your  mine?" 

Gray  passed  the  letter  to  Meekins,  and  sat,  his 
head  hanging  heavily  on  a  limber  neck,  while  Red 
perused  the  contents  aloud.  The  letter  explained 
that  the  assayer  had  found  the  samples  of  ore  very 
rich  in  silver;  the  writer  might  add  "suspiciously 
rich."  He  had  also  discovered,  in  the  process  of 


186  RED  MEEKINS 

pulverizing  the  ore,  probably  half  a  pint  of  oats. 
This  curious  blend  of  agricultural  product  with 
silver,  hitherto  unknown  in  mineralogy,  had  caused 
him  to  examine  closely  the  conglomerate  carrying 
the  silver,  and  he  had  classed  it  as  manufactured  ce- 
ment, mixed  with  loose  gravel.  These  startling  in- 
consistencies had  induced  Mr.  Boultbee  Downs  to 
decline  the  purchase  of  the  Little  Star  mine,  and 
he  was  returning  inclosed  the  preliminary  agree- 
ment. 

The  letter  fell  from  Red's  hand.  He  sat  staring 
helplessly  at  Gray. 

The  latter  roused  himself  to  say,  "I  knew  I  never 
could  have  no  luck!" 

"The  oats  was  in  the  feed  bag!"  Red  moaned. 
"Twenty  thousand  bucks!  If  I'd  only  had  a  clean 
bag!" 


Ill 


PETER  WRIGHT  was  vainly  searching  for  gold  in 
British  Columbia,  Red  Meekins  absorbing  booze 
in  New  Liskeard,  and  John  Haskell  making  money 
in  the  village  of  Newgate ;  but  within  a  month  these 
three  had  come  together  in  a  search  for  silver  in 
Cobalt. 

Haskell  met  Wright  on  the  train  going  east. 
There  was  a  semblance  of  rugged  honesty  about  the 
miner  which  impressed  Haskell,  and  before  they 
reached  Toronto  he  had  agreed  to  grubstake  Peter 
in  the  Cobalt  field. 

Had  Haskell  submitted  to  his  lawyer  the  agree- 
ment Peter  provided,  there  would  have  been  less 
turmoil  over  the  Pink  Eye ;  indeed,  it  might  not  have 
been  discovered  at  all.  The  simplicity  of  this  docu- 
ment seemed  to  preclude  subtle  unfairness.  In  it 
Wright  covenanted  to  give  Haskell  a  half  interest 
in  all  mining  claims  he  might  stake  in  1907,  for  a 
consideration  of  fifteen  hundred  dollars;  five  hun- 
dred down,  and  balance  in  two  instalments.  That 
was  in  June,  and  Peter  went  north  to  New  Liskeard, 
where  he  hired  Red  Meekins  to  accompany  him, 
and  then  continued  on  into  the  wilds. 

Within  two  months  he  had  located  three  mining 
187 


188  RED  MEEKINS 

claims  in  Dufferin  township,  and  wrote  to  Haskell 
encouragingly.  As  the  Dufferin  claims  simply  pop 
in  and  out  of  this  story,  having  little  to  do  with  the 
Pink  Eye,  it  would  be  well  to  skip  all  the  depressing 
days  of  fruitless  endeavour  and  take  up  with  Red 
Meekins's  vivid  words  as  he  and  Peter  sat  in  front 
of  their  little  log  shack  one  evening  in  September. 

"There  ain't  no  silver  in  this  God-forsaken  corner 
of  the  earth,  Pete !  It's  a  mooseyard,  that's  what  it 
is!"  Meekins  growled.  "If  you'd  pull  out  of  this 
mosquito  nest  and  trail  with  me  to  a  lake  forty 
miles  west  of  Elk  City,  I'd  show  you  somethin' 
that'd  make  your  eyes  bulge  bigger'n  a  lobster's." 

"I've  heard  talk  like  that  before,"  Wright 
sneered.  "The  gold  was  always  on  the  other  side 
of  the  mountain,  and,  like  a  fool,  at  first  I  uster 
take  stock  in  their  yarns  an'  go  jackrabbitin'  round, 
an'  all  I  got  was  corns." 

"It's  there,  right  enough,"  Red  asserted  dog- 
gedly. "I  see  a  streak  of  it  as  big  as  a  brick  wall 
runnin'  straight  up  a  cliff  thirty  feet  high." 

"Why  didn't  you  stake  it?" 

"  'Cause  I  didn't  know  what  it  was  them  days — 
that  was  five  years  ago.  I  was  guide  for  a  Cockney 
Lord  out  shootin',  an'  hadn't  never  mined  none  till 
this  Cobalt  boom  started.  Soon's  I've  saved  up  a 
grubstake  you  bet  I'll  fly  my  kite  to  where  that  big 
silver  chute  is  jus'  standin'  up  on  its  hind  legs  an' 
beggin'  some  feller  to  come  an'  get  richl" 

Peter  laughed  derisively. 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  189 

"Jus'  thought  of  somethin'  funny,  didn't  you?" 
Red  snapped. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  funny  about  minin',"  Peter 
answered  solemnly,  "except  that  it's  a  good  joke  on 
the  feller  that  goes  in  for  it." 

For  a  week  Peter  pondered  over  Red's  yarn. 
He  was  like  other  oldtime  miners,  who,  no  matter 
how  often  they  chase  a  will-o'-the-wisp,  are  ever 
ready  to  follow  its  illusive  light.  That  is  really 
what  makes  for  discovery.  At  the  end  of  the  week 
Peter  made  a  bargain  with  Red  to  grubstake  a  trip 
in  search  of  silver.  He  put  the  matter  of  his  con- 
tract with  Haskell  in  the  background — he  would 
straighten  that  up  somehow. 

Red  unconsciously  worded  the  sentiment  that  was 
hardly  yet  a  definite  intent  in  Peter's  mind.  "Let 
the  duck  that  staked  you  keep  these  claims  for  his- 
self — he's  got  enough  money,  anyway.  Like  as  not 
he'd  throw  you  down,"  he  advised. 

Red's  words  grated  on  Peter's  ears.  He  would 
surely  give  Haskell  some  share  of  any  great  luck 
that  might  happen  his  way.  It  was  a  remote  pos- 
sibility, a  safe  salve  for  his  conscience. 

It  took  them  two  weeks  to  make  the  journey; 
first  south  to  Latchford,  and  then  up  the  Montreal 
River  with  its  sixteen  portages.  With  the  very  last 
rapid  the  two  men  had  trouble,  and  the  laughing 
waters  took  a  toll  of  half  their  outfit. 

"Here  we  are  at  last!"  Red  ejaculated  triumph- 
antly as  they  landed  on  the  west  shore  of  Gowganda 
Lake. 


190  RED  MEEKINS 

Though  vthey  were  in  verity  there,  Red's  silver 
vein  seemed  to  have  taken  wings.  For  two  weeks 
the  Argonauts  sought  for  the  silver  fleece  on  a  diet 
of  bannock — a  veritable  dough  matrix,  flour  and 
water;  for  their  baking  powder  was  effervescing 
somewhere  in  the  muddy  waters  of  Montreal  River. 

Toil-tried  and  gaunt  of  stomach,  they  had  pad- 
dled to  the  edge  of  a  shelving  rock  that  sloped 
gently  to  the  lake's  edge  one  evening  to  camp. 

"Beats  me !"  Red  said,  as  they  spread  their 
meagre  belongings  on  the  camping  ground. 

"What  beats  you?"  Peter  asked  in  sheer  vacuity. 

"Why,  where  that  vein's  got  to." 

"Guess  it's  over  the  Great  Divide,"  and  Peter 
spat  contemptuously. 

"Not  by  a  jugful  'tain't!"  Red  objected.  He 
pointed  to  a  lone  bleached  pine  that  stood  on  a  point 
of  the  rock.  "See  that  stub  that  the  lightnin's  made 
a  corkscrew  of?" 

"Is  it  in  that?"  Peter  asked  derisively. 

"I  shot  a  hawk  from  that  long  scrawny  limb  an 
hour  after  I  see  that  pink  streak  in  the  cliff  the  time 
I  was  here  before;  so  it  can't  be  far  away,  can  it?" 

"Must  be  adjacent,  or  a  long,  long  way  from  no- 
where," Peter  agreed. 

"I  thought  it  was  a  kind,  of  paint — pink  ocher,  or 
somethin',  same's  the  Indians  used,"  Red  said  remi- 
niscently,  "an'  I  went  up  to  it  an'  dug  with  my  jack- 
knife  an'  cut  into  somethin'  I  thought  was  tin.  I 
carried  a  hunk  of  it  around  in  my  pocket  for  about  a 
month ;  then  I  lost  it.  I  kinder  think  it  wore  a  hole 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  191 

in  my  pants  pocket  an'  sorter  dribbled  out.  Wasn't 
that  silver,  right  enough?" 

"Who  was  you  guidin'  for,  did  you  say,  Red?" 

"A  Cockney  Lord,  I  told  you  onct — Sir  John 
Snoopers,  or  Cudleigh,  or  somethin'.  What's  that 
got  to  do  with  it,  Pete?" 

"Was  the  gent  packin'  much  booze?" 

Red  flared  up  angrily.  "I  know  what  you  mean, 
Pete!  You  think  I'm  stringin'  you;  but  I  ain't. 
I  got  my  bearin's  now,  an'  I  bet  you  we're  gettin' 
hot!" 

"I  guess  I'm  gettin'  pretty  lean  on  it,"  Peter 
growled.  "Them  dough  flapjacks  seems  to've  glued 
my  insides  together."  He  picked  up  the  flour  bag 
and  weighed  it  in  his  hand  contemplatively. 
"There's  the  makin's  of  'bout  two  more  curlin' 
stones  in  this  bag,"  he  adjudged,  "an'  then  we  go 
without  our  repast,  Red.  I'm  goin'  to  hit  the  trail 
acrost  country  for  Elk  City  in  the  mornin'.  My 
advice  to  you  is  to  do  likewise,  an'  come  back  to 
find  that  silver  mountain  when  the  railroad  trains 
're  runnin'  reg'lar." 

"I  don't  see  nothin'  to  get  gay  about,"  Meekins 
objected.  "I  ain't  lied  to  you ;  I've  kinder  got  mixed 
on  the  lay  of  the  land,  that's  all." 

"I  ain't  kickin',"  Peter  said  quietly.  "A  pros- 
pector's got  to  stand  for  a  few  fool  trips.  Silver 
veins  is  kinder  like  gold  leads,  I  guess — they're  apt 
to  get  mislaid.  I've  knowed  a  gold  outcrop  in 
British  Columbia  that  I've  gone  huntin'  for  with  a 


192  RED  MEEKINS 

fellow  that  knew  just  where  it  was,  to  be  found  over 
in  the  next  county  by  another  man." 

Peter's  satire  always  subdued  Red's  cruder  at- 
tack. After  a  short,  sullen  silence  he  said,  "I'll  mix 
a  bannock  if  you'll  get  some  wood  for  a  fire,  Pete." 

Wright  took  up  his  axe  and  scanned  a  bluff  of 
rock  that  raised  its  hard  forbidding  face  above  a 
copse  of  birch  and  poplar. 

Red,  following  the  direction  of  Peter's  eyes,  said, 
"It  was  sorter  like  that  cliff  where  I  see  the  cobalt 
bloom.  I'll  scratch  around  that  stone  nose  in  the 
morninV 

It  seemed  to  Red  that  Peter  was  a  long  time  over 
his  quest  for  wood.  When  he  had  pounded  the 
plastic  mass  of  flour  and  water  into  something  that 
looked  like  a  round  dough  medal,  he  put  it  into  the 
frypan  and  stood  the  pan  on  edge  against  a  stone. 
Then  he  gathered  some  twigs  and  birchbark  and 
started  a  fire.  As  the  resinous  bark  sizzled  and 
the  flame  shot  up,  Red  cocked  his  ear  toward  the 
gloomy  forest.  The  metallic  click  of  steel  on  rock 
carried  from  its  depths.  "Guess  Pete's  prospectin' 
ol'  baldhead  up  yonder,"  he  muttered.  "It'd  be  a 
good  joke  on  him  if  he  dropped  onto  that  silver 
vein." 

Presently  there  was  a  crashing  of  small  growth 
as  though  a  bull  moose  was  charging  down  the 
hillside,  and  Peter,  dragging  three  long  poles  of 
birch  under  his  arm,  emerged  from  the  woods.  He 
threw  the  poles  clatteringly  to  the  ground  and, 
stooping  to  the  birch  firelight,  drew  a  magnifying 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  193 

glass  from  his  pocket  and  critically  examined  some- 
thing he  held  in  his  hand. 

"What  you  got  there,  Pete?"  Red  queried. 

For  answer  Wright  passed  the  glass  and  object 
of  examination  over  to  Meekins.  The  latter,  after 
a  long,  intent  look  at  the  fragment  of  rock,  sprang 
to  his  feet  excitedly,  crying,  "By  the  jumped  up 
Jimmy  Robison,  that's  it !  You've  got  it,  Pete !" 

"Looks  powerful  like  it.  I  ain't  much  posted  on 
this  cobalt  stuff;  but  I've  heard  there  ain't  no  pink 
rock  in  these  parts  except  cobalt  bloom,  and  that's 
a  kind  of  weather-rotted  silver." 

Meekins  was  caressing  the  substance  gently  with 
his  fingertips.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed,  "Say,  there's 
wire  silver  in  that!"  He  cut  at  it  eagerly  with  his 
knife,  revealing  glistening  specks  of  pure  metal 
looking  like  pinheads.  "It  is  silver!"  he  yelled 
exultantly.  "A  knife  won't  cut  no  mineral  that's 
found  in  these  parts  'cept  silver." 

"I  guess  a  knife  wouldn't  cut  this  bannock  none 
too  much  pretty  soon,"  Peter  declared  as  he  shot 
out  his  long  arm  and  retrieved  their  supper  from 
where  it  rested  fair  in  the  fire,  neatly  black-capped 
by  the  frypan,  Red  in  his  excitement  having  over- 
turned the  utensil. 

"Gee  whilikin!"  Meekins  exclaimed.  "It  would 
be  mighty  tough  luck  to  starve  to  death  in  the  bush 
just  as  we  was  worth  a  million." 

While  they  waited  for  their  supper  Peter  cut  a 
post  ten  feet  long,  squared  its  top,  and  wrote  his 
name,  the  date,  and  hour  on  one  of  its  flattened 


194  RED  MEEKINS 

sides,  saying,  "When  we've  grubbed  we'll  plant 
this  discovery  post,  an'  first  thing  in  the  mornin' 
we'll  hike  to  the  outside  an'  file  the  claim." 

When  they  had  eaten,  the  two  climbed  the  glacis 
that  inclined  to  the  base  of  a  huge  cliff.  Even  in 
the  dim  light  of  approaching  night  they  could  make 
out  the  silver  trail  that  lay  bedded  in  the  diabase 
rock,  standing  almost  perpendicular. 

With  his  axe  Peter  cut  a  hole  in  the  clay,  and  they 
planted  the  discovery  post  which  carried  on  its 
square  sides  a  flaunting  notice  to  all  the  world  that 
forty  acres  of  this  mineral  land  had  been  taken  up. 

"Now  she's  ourn,  so  to  speak,"  Red  grunted,  as 
he  built  a  little  cairn  of  stones  about  the  post. 

Floundering  down  the  hillside,  Red  babbled  of 
wealth  and  its  manifest  obligations.  He  was  going 
to  show  some  people  something,  and  others  that  had 
been  meek  in  spirit  and  lean  of  purse  he  was  going 
to  pasture  in  Elysian  fields.  All  this  was  to  trans- 
pire in  his  native  village  of  Coboconk. 

By  the  little  campfire  Peter  sat  morosely  silent. 
A  fierce  cupidity,  roused  in  him  by  the  undoubted 
richness  of  the  claim,  was  increased  by  Red's  talk  of 
his  share.  Peter's  precarious  position  came  to  him 
with  startling  vividness.  Red  would  be  satisfied 
with  nothing  less  than  half,  and  Haskell  would 
claim  half  of  Peter's  share,  according  to  his  con- 
tract. Silently  Wright  vowed  that  he'd  share  with 
one  of  the  two  men  only.  And  the  moment  of 
decision  had  arrived;  for,  having  staked  the  three 
claims  in  Dufferin  on  his  own  miner's  license,  which 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  195 

exhausted  its  privilege,  he  would  have  to  file  the 
Pink  Eye  claim  either  in  the  name  of  Haskell  or  of 
Meekins. 

"Let  me  see  your  miner's  license,  Red,"  he  asked 
presently. 

"I  ain't  got  no  license,"  Meekins  declared. 

"You  ain't  got  a  license !  You're  a  fine  prospec- 
tor !"  Peter  swore  in  his  dismay. 

"I  wasn't  prospectin';  I  was  workin'  for  you," 
Meekins  objected.  "I  didn't  have  no  five  dollars 
to  pay  for  it,  an'  you  said  you  hadn't  none  too  much 
money;  so  I  never  said  nothin'  'bout  it." 

Wright  relapsed  into  brooding  silence,  puffing 
fitfully  at  his  pipe,  his  mind  tortured  with  this  new 
thing  of  large  finance. 

"Hanged  if  you  don't  take  the  cake!"  Red 
snarled  after  a  time.  "One'd  think  you'd  lost  your 
mother-in-law.  Does  gettin'  rich  quick  give  you 
the  blues,  Pete?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  turn  in,"  Wright  answered  surlily. 
"We've  got  to  beat  the  birds  to  the  early  worm  in 
the  mornin'." 

"Wisht  I  could  sleep!"  Red  whined  as  Peter 
rolled  in  his  blankets.  "Seems  to  be  somethin'  the 
matter  with  me.  Maybe  it's  bein'  rich  all  of  a 
suddent.  Did  you  ever  have  dyspepsy,  Pete?"  he 
asked  presently.  "My  stomach's  called  a  board 
meetin'  to  see  why  I  ain't  puttin'  no  meat  into  it." 

"Put  it  to  sleep!"  Wright  growled. 

After  a  time  Red  took  Peter's  advice;  but  the 
giver  of  it  lay  wide  eyed,  staring  up  at  the  stars, 


196  RED  MEEKINS 

thinking,  thinking.  Avarice  was  writing  upon  his 
soul  words  of  sophistry  that  were  the  doom  of 
honour  and  fealty.  Why  should  he,  who  was  the 
actual  discoverer  of  this  wealth,  the  means  of  its 
obtaining,  give  half  of  it  to  a  drunkard  who  would 
never  have  found  anyone  else  with  faith  enough  to 
take  this  trip,  and  also  half  of  his  own  share  to  a 
man  sitting  in  comfort  at  home,  who  had  risked  a 
few  paltry  dollars  and  had  the  claims  up  in  Dufferin 
for  his  money.  The  point  of  honour  hardly  entered 
Peter's  thoughts.  That  eight-inch  vein  of  silver 
meant  that  the  forty  acres  was  worth  half  a  million 
at  least.  It  was  the  large  sum  of  money  at  stake 
that  held  sway  over  his  mind. 

Late  in  the  night  Wright  fell  asleep.  At  the  first 
caw  of  a  crow  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  wakened 
his  companion  with  a  rough  shake  of  the  shoulder. 

Red  sat  up,  looked  stupidly  at  Wright,  and  asked, 
"Say,  Pete,  did  we  find  that  vein?  It's  kinder  mixed 
in  my  mind  like  a  dream." 

'Shake  yourself,"  Peter  answered  laconically. 

"An'  as  to  breakfast,"  Red  remarked,  as  he  set  a 
copper  kettle  on  the  fire  Peter  had  lighted,  "there's 
bannock  well  done  an'  rare.  An'  for  bev'rage, 
squaw  tea — the  same  bein'  decocted  from  these," 
and  he  dropped  into  the  kettle  a  handful  of  shiny 
green  leaves  from  a  plant  allied  to  the  wintergreen. 

"We'll  go  up  an'  see  what  she  looks  like  in  day- 
light," Wright  said  when  they  had  eaten. 

"I  guess  she's  all  O.  K.,"  Red  remarked  as  they 
stood  at  the  base  of  the  cliff,  "That  hang-over 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  197 

yonder  is  what  I  first  see  five  years  ago.  It  was  like 
a  great  pink  eye  blinkin'  at  a  feller.  Say,  that'd 
make  a  good  name  for  the  mine,  Pete — the  Pink 
Eye.  Is  it  a  go?  Kinder  ketchy,  ain't  it?" 

"Good's  any,  I  guess,"  Wright  answered.  "Let's 
get  to  the  top  an'  see  what  she's  like  on  the  roof." 

On  the  summit  they  found  the  vein  running  due 
west  for  over  two  hundred  feet.  Here  the  silver, 
oxidized,  was  almost  devoid  of  the  pink  bloom  and 
ran  like  a  ribbon  between  holding  walls  of  diabase 
rock  in  a  brown  fretwork  of  wire  silver,  looking  like 
an  artistic  inlay  of  bronze. 

"She's  the  real  cheese !"  Red  opined.  "A  cool 
million  buys  my  half,  an'  not  a  cent  less !" 

Wright  looked  at  Meekins  out  of  heavy,  sullen 
eyes.  There  was  something  incongruous,  flagrant, 
about  this  talk  of  a  million  emanating  from  a  man 
who,  when  hanging  round  the  hotels,  borrowed  a 
quarter  from  anybody  who  would  lend  it.  He 
turned  and  fought  his  way  through  the  brush  down 
the  hill,  followed  by  Meekins.  When  they  came 
to  the  discovery  post,  Wright  kicked  the  stones 
away,  pulled  the  timber  up,  and  swung  it  to  his 
shoulder. 

Red  stared.  "What  are  you  doin',  Pete?"  he 
asked.  Wright  had  started  on  down  the  hill  with 
his  burden.  "Danged  if  he  ain't  gone  plumb  loony 
over  this  strike !"  Meekins  muttered  as  he  plunged 
after  Peter. 

At  the  camp  Wright  seized  the  axe  and  cut  the 
post  into  firewood.. 


198  RED  MEEKINS 

"What's  the  idee,  Pete?  Wasn't  it  right?" 
Meekins  asked,  as  Peter  threw  the  sticks  on  the  fire. 

"I  ain't  goin'  to  stake  this  claim — not  for  awhile 
yet,"  Wright  answered  quietly. 

"You  ain'  goin'  to  stake !  What  in  the  name  of 
Moses  did  you  come  here  for,  then?" 

"Partly  lookin'  for  silver,  an'  partly  to  see  that 
Peter  Wright  didn't  come  out  the  small  end  of  the 
horn." 

Again  Red  stared  in  amazement.  "I  guess  I  best 
stake  that  claim  myself,  then,  he  declared  presently. 

"On  what?" 

"What  d'you  mean,  Pete?" 

"You  ain't  got  no  miner's  license." 

Red  blinked  in  defeat — he  had  forgotten  his 
documentary  shortage.  "But  you've  got  a  license, 
Pete.  What's  the  sense  of  this  monkey  business?" 

"No,  I  ain't;  I  staked  them  three  claims  in 
Dufferin  on  my  permit. 

"Ain't  you  got  nothin'  to  pertect  this  silver  mine 
after  we've  found  it?  That's  a  nice  way  to  go  pros- 
pectin',  ain't  it?" 

"I  got  Haskell's  license  in  my  pocket — there  ain't 
nothin'  staked  on  that  yet,"  and  Peter's  blue-gray 
eyes  looked  into  Red's  in  a  way  that  made  Meekins 
shiver. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  stake  on  that,  then?" 

"And  give  you  half,  and  split  my  half  with  him?" 

"I  got  to  get  half.  'Tain'  none  of  my  business 
how  you  fix  it  up  with  the  other  feller,"  Red  snarled. 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  199 

"If  I  staked  on  Haskell's  license,  Red,  where'd 
you  come  out!" 

"I'd  law  you  for  it,  Pete,  thet's  where  I'd  get  it !" 

"And  I'd  produce  in  court  this  contract  that  car- 
ries the  name  of  a  gent  called  Meekins,  whereby  said 
Meekins  agrees  to  work  for  one  Peter  Wright  six 
months  for  three  dollars  a  day  and  grub." 

"That  contract  don't  say  nothin'  about  my  givin' 
up  my  silver  vein  here,  does  it?" 

"  'Tain't  yours,  an'  never  was !  Your  vein  got 
mislaid — I  found  this  one." 

"An'  you're  goin'  to  bunko  me  out  of  my  half, 
eh?" 

"I  ain't  said  anythin'  about  your  half — you've 
done  all  that  talk.  An'  I  ain't  said  I  was  goin'  to 
bunko  you.  I  just  said  I  wasn't  goin'  to  stake  it 
now.  I'm  comin  back  when  the  cricks  break  up  in 
the  spring — that'll  be  1908.  Can  you  get  that 
through  your  head,  Red?" 

"An  find  somebody's  jumped  the  mine !  That's 
what'll  happen,  an'  it'll  serve  you  right." 

"Nobody  ain't  goin'  to  find  it.  It's  been  planted 
here  .a  few  thousand  years,  an'  nobody  did.  You 
knew  it  was  here,  an'  been  lookin'  for  it  two  weeks 
an'  couldn't  find  it.  Besides,  runnin'  water'll  soon 
freeze  up  an'  nobody  can  get  in.  I'll  be  first  man  up 
in  the  spring." 

Red  pondered  over  the  situation;  then  he  said, 

"What  d'you  want  to  take  this  chance  of  losin'  a 
fortune  for?" 

"  'Cause  I  got  to  act  square  with  my  partner," 


200  RED  MEEKINS 

Peter  answered  in  hypocrisy.  "If  I  stake  in  1907,  I 
got  to  give  him  half  an'  live  up  to  the  contract;  but 
if  I  stake  in  1908  you  get  the  half  that's  comin'  to 
you.  You've  got  the  best  right  to  it,  ain't  you?  He 
wasn't  never  in  on  this  deal.  It  won't  make  no 
diff'rence  to  me  which  man  I  give  it  to." 

The  venom  of  avarice  was  in  Red's  soul  with  the 
same  virulence  that  it  was  in  Peter's.  He  under- 
stood his  partner  now.  If  Haskell  did  not  know 
they  had  found  this  mine  in  1907,  he  would  have 
no  legal  claim.  Wright  was  determined  to  keep 
at  least  half,  and  meant  to  cheat  the  man  who  would 
give  him  the  least  trouble.  To  stake  in  Haskell's 
name  would  make  a  three-cornered  fight,  with  a 
chance  of  Meekins  being  frozen  out.  Besides,  they 
could  do  nothing  till  spring,  anyway;  no  purchaser 
could  very  well  come  up  to  see  it,  and  they  could  not 
mine  the  silver. 

"If  I  wait  till  you're  clear  of  that  farmer,  will  you 
agree  that  we're  halfers  in  the  Pink  Eye?"  Red 
asked. 

"Yes;  'cause  I'm  goin'  to  act  on  the  level  with 
you,  Red." 

"How  am  I  goin'  to  pull  through  the  winter?" 
Meekins  queried,  actuated  by  a  new  thought.  "I'd 
be  feared  to  go  out  prospectin' — I  might  get  froze 
to  death  just  when  I'd  made  this  fortune  an'  never 
get  a  nickel  of  it." 

"I'll  pay  your  board  till  spring  if  you  keep  your 
mouth  shut.  If  you  don't  you'll  lose  as  much  as  I 
will." 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  201 

"Well,  that's  a  bargain,"  Red  agreed.  "Just 
.write  that  on  a  paper." 

"You  got  to  take  my  word  for  it,  Red,"  Peter 
answered  doggedly. 

"An*  get  the  same  throw-down  Haskell's  gettin', 
eh,  Pete?" 

"You  got  to  take  your  choice  whether  you  take  a 
half  or  give  it  to  him.  If  I  wrote  you  a  paper  like 
that,  first  time  you  got  full  somebody'd  read  it,  an' 
they'd  come  in  with  dog  trains  on  the  snow  an'  beat 
us  out." 

"Well,  Pete,  if  you  won't  you  won't,  I  guess,  for 
you  think  you've  got  the  best  of  it;  but  if  you  try  to 
freeze  me  out  I'll  go  to  the  man  that  grubstaked 
you  and  split.  Then  you'll  get  a  quarter  share." 

"You  won't  have  no  cause  to  do  anything  but 
take  the  same  size  share  as  I  get,  Red;  that's  if  you 
keep  your  mouth  shut.  Now  let's  pack  up  and  pull 
out,"  Peter  answered  quietly. 

Looking  up  suddenly  as  they  packed,  he  saw 
Meekins  transferring  something  from  beneath  his 
shirt  to  his  blankets.  "Hold  on,  Redl"  he  com- 
manded angrily.  "You  ain't  goin'  to  pack  that 
silver  out!" 

"You  bet  I  just  am !  Half  of  all  the  silver  in  that 
mine  belongs  to  me,  an'  why  can't  I  take  them 
pieces?"  Meekins  retorted. 

"  'Cause  first  time  you  got  drunk  you'd  show  'em 
an'  blab.  Throw  'em  in  the  lake,  Red." 

"I'll  see  you  dead  first,  Peter  Wright,  an'  then  I 
won't!"  Meekins  swore. 


RED  MEEKINS 

A  red  flush  of  anger  suffused  the  tawny  face  of 
Wright;  the  blue  eyes  turned  to  steel  gray.  It  was 
the  first  time  Red  had  felt  the  presence  of  passion 
in  his  partner,  and,  facing  the  tall,  lithe  Peter,  so 
close  that  he  felt  the  other's  hot  breath,  Red 
dropped  his  eyes  to  the  big  sinewy  hands,  the  fingers 
of  which  were  stretched  like  the  talons  of  a  hawk. 
An  instinctive  knowledge  flashed  through  his  mind 
that  unless  he  complied  the  fingers  would  be  at  his 
throat,  and  he  was  afraid. 

"You're  carryin'  things  with  a  high  hand,  Pete; 
but  I  don't  want  to  have  no  row,"  Meekins  said 
sullenly.  He  threw  the  pieces  of  silver  far  out  into 
the  waters  of  the  lake. 

"It's  for  your  good  as  much  as  mine,"  Wright 
declared.  "We  can't  afford  to  take  no  chance." 

Lean  of  stomach  to  the  edge  of  starvation,  the 
prospectors  found  their  way  back  to  the  land  of 
food.  And  for  months  Wright  lived  a  season  of 
apprehension.  In  his  dreams  he  saw  men  and  ma- 
chinery on  the  Pink  Eye  taking  out  carloads  of 
silver,  each  carload  in  itself  a  fortune.  Meekins 
was  a  leech,  a  vampire,  bleeding  him  for  money; 
more  than  once,  when  under  the  influence  of  liquor, 
threatening  to  raise  money  on  the  mine  if  Peter  did 
not  give  it  to  him. 

Some  work  had  been  done  on  the  Dufferin  claims 
and  several  letters  written  to  Haskell  to  keep  him 
quiet.  In  one  of  these  Peter,  as  salve  to  his  con- 
science, wrote  that  it  would  give  him  joy  to  be  able 
to  send  Haskell  a  check  for  ten  thousand  dollars; 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  203 

that  if  he  did  strike  it  rich  at  any  time  he  would  see 
that  Haskell  lost  no  money  over  his  mining  venture. 
At  this  time  Peter  really  meant  it.  Daily  he  was 
making  mental  bargains  with  Haskell;  figuratively 
setting  aside  a  sum  for  him  when  he  had  cleaned  up 
over  the  Pink  Eye. 

In  the  spring,  when  the  ice  of  the  rivers  broke  up 
with  a  remonstrative  crackling  like  the  fire  of  mus- 
ketry, Wright  and  Meekins  went  up  the  Montreal 
and  staked  the  mine.  Not  until  the  claim  was  filed 
in  their  joint  names  did  Meekins  feel  safe. 

The  staking  of  the  Pink  Eye,  and  the  samples 
shown,  caused  a  stampede  to  Gowganda.  Prospec- 
tors rushed  in,  followed  by  capitalists,  looking  for 
plums  with  which  to  float  huge  companies. 

The  Pink  Eye  was  sold  for  a  million  dollars ;  one 
hundred  thousand  paid  down  when  it  was  passed 
by  the  buyer's  engineer,  balance  to  be  paid  in  instal- 
ments. 

When  Haskell  read  this  item  of  mining  news  it 
made  him  gasp;  then  it  made  him  think,  and  his 
thoughts  left  him  suspicious.  He  had  been  wonder- 
ing why  he  could  not  come  face  to  face  with  Wright. 
And  Peter's  letters  had  been  sparing  of  detail  in 
the  extreme,  tryingly  apathetic  as  to  the  future  de- 
velopment of  the  Dufferin  claims.  And  the  finding 
of  this  rich  mine  had  come  so  quickly  after  Peter 
was  legally  clear  of  Haskell. 

"I  believe  Wright's  a  crook,"  he  declared. 

His  lawyer  was  of  the  same  opinion. 


204  RED  MEEKINS 

"I'll  make  him  pony  up  if  he's  done  me,"  Haskell 
declared. 

But  making  Peter  pony  up  shaped  somewhat  into 
an  impossibility  as  Haskell  sought  for  the  necessary 
evidence.  His  lawyer  sent  an  agent  to  hark  back 
over  Wright's  trail  for  the  last  several  months. 
The  agent  returned  declaring  that  all  miners  were 
a  gang  like  unto  the  Forty  Thieves;  they  were 
banded  together  to  shield  each  other  in  their  dis- 
honesty. 

"It  looks  like  a  bad  case,"  the  lawyer  advised. 
"We'll  have  to  wait  till  we  get  some  evidence." 

That  very  day  Haskell  almost  had  his  evidence. 
By  chance  he  was  introduced  to  Red  Meekins  in  a 
hotel.  Meekins  was  now  a  distinguished  citizen, 
one  of  the  new  millionaires,  a  man  to  introduce 
other  men  to.  He  was  also,  at  that  moment,  most 
certainly  under  the  influence  of  liquor.  Meekins, 
sober,  could  carry  in  his  mind  only  the  material 
benefit  of  Peter's  having  acted  square  by  him; 
drunk,  his  mind  missed  the  main  point,  and  retained 
an  unreasoning  hatred  of  the  man  who  had  mastered 
him  standing  face  to  face  in  the  bush. 

It  had  taken  Haskell  half  an  hour  to  get  to  the 
point  where  Meekins,  leaning  over  the  table, 
bleared  at  him  and  said,  "Pete's  a  crook,  Mr. 
Haskell.  He  did  you  up  right  enough,  an'  you 
didn't  know  it.  That's  why  I  sold  out — I  was 
afeared  of  him.  But  if  he'd  tried  his  bunko  on  me, 
d'you  know  what  I'd  a  done?"  Red  hung  on  his 
query  and  knitted  his  heavy  red  brows. 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  205 

"No;  what  would  you  have  done?"  Haskell 
asked,  trying  to  mask  his  eagerness  in  a  subdued 
tone. 

"I'd  a  put  Tom  Gilder  at  him.  He'dVe  tied  him 
up  for  forty  years,  an'  then  made  Pete  toe  the 
mark!" 

Red  brought  his  fist  down  as  an  accompaniment 
to  a  fierce  oath.  It  came  in  contact  with  his  glass; 
the  fingers  opened  and  closed  on  it;  he  gulped  the 
liquor  down.  His  mind  flitted  at  a  tangent,  and  he 
fell  to  cursing  the  whiskey.  He  had  forgotten  all 
about  the  mine. 

Haskell,  unwisely  too  eager,  said,  "How  did 
Wright  do  me  up,  Meekins?  Tell  me,  and  I'll 
make  it  worth  your  while." 

Red  stared  at  the  speaker,  a  glimmer  of  intel- 
ligence stealing  into  his  eyes.  "Say,  Mr.  Haskell, 
anythin'  I  say  when  I'm  full  don't  go,  see?  Let's 
take  a  walk.  I  feel  sorter  uncomfor'able,"  he  said. 

It  had  filtered  into  Red's  mind  that  Haskell  was 
after  evidence.  That  meant  a  suit,  and  a  suit  meant 
tying  up  the  mine  and  stopping  of  payments. 

Meekins  started  off  tortuously  for  the  desired 
walk.  Haskell  purposely  lost  him  in  the  rotunda 
of  the  hotel.  Then  he  sat  down  to  recast  the  little 
scene  that  had  just  been  enacted.  The  name  Tom 
Gilder  lingered  with  vivid  insistence.  If  Gilder 
had  the  power  to  bring  Wright  to  account,  he  must 
know  all  about  the  Pink  Eye.  Haskell  determined 
to  find  this  man  Gilder. 

"Do  I  know  Tom  Gilder?"  replied  the  first  man 


206  RED  MEEKINS 

Haskell  asked  this  question  of.  "I  should  say  so! 
Everybody  does." 

"Who  is  he?" 

"Well,  he's  the  limit,  if  you  ask  me.  He  was 
a  pretty  clever  lawyer  once.  Is  still,  really;  but 
now  he's  a  kind  of  Sherlock  Holmes  in  the  mining 
game.  If  he  got  after  any  of  my  claims,  I'd  just 
tell  him  to  go  out  and  select  what  he  wanted." 

This  vivid  description  of  Gilder  explained  the 
great  faith  of  Meekins  and  suggested  to  Haskell 
the  wisdom  of  at  least  having  an  interview  with 
Gilder. 

He  found  him  in  a  dingy  office  sitting  at  a  little 
oak  desk  against  a  background  of  leather  covered 
law  books.  A  pair  of  pale  blue  eyes,  set  so  close 
together  that  there  seemed  scarcely  room  for  the 
thin  high-bridged  nose,  peered  at  Haskell  with 
questioning  intensity. 

Haskell  had  come  with  the  idea  of  sizing  up 
Gilder;  but  he  found  himself  almost  at  once  ex- 
plaining his  position  down  to  the  minutest  detail. 

Gilder's  first  question  was,  "Have  you  any 
papers?" 

He  read  the  letters  of  Peter  Wright  without 
comment.  The  contract  he  perused  twice;  then, 
peering  over  his  glasses,  said,  "That  contract  isn't 
fit  to  govern  the  working  plans  of  a  pair  of  owls! 
But  it  cooks  your  goose  in  a  hearing  before  a 
Judge." 

Haskell  gave  a  sigh  of  resignation.  "Looks  as 
if  I'd  got  to  stand  for  being  done  up  by  that  crook," 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  207 

he  said.  "Haven't  I  got  a  chance  to  make  him  pay 
back  that  fifteen  hundred  he  did  me  out  of?" 

The  shadow  of  a  mirthless  smile  played  about 
Gilder's  thin  lips.  "Would  you  be  willing  to  take  a 
hundred  thousand  dollars  from  Wright  in  settle- 
ment?" he  asked. 

Haskell  gasped  in  astonishment.  He  stared  into 
the  placid  eyes,  so  like  little  knobs  of  blue  china, 
wondering  if  he  had  heard  aright. 

"I  think  I  could  make  him  settle  for  that 
amount,"  Gilder  added. 

"Then,  by  jinks,  go  ahead!"  and  Haskell  slapped 
his  knee  as  though  he  had  stamped  an  agreement. 

"My  fee  will  be  one-third  of  whatever  amount 
we  accept,"  Gilder  advised. 

"But  you  said  I  had  a  weak  case;  that  a  Judge 
would  give  it  against  me  on  that  contract." 

"You  have  no  case  at  all,  really,"  Gilder  an- 
iswered  calmly;  "but  we're  not  going  before  a  Judge, 
not  if  I  can  help  it.  You  can  leave  the  matter  in  my 
hands. 

Then  Haskell  went  back  to  his  somnolent  village, 
and  the  subtle  power  of  Gilder  fell  on  Peter  the 
unjust.  Writs,  and  injunctions,  and  cautions  against 
issuing  a  patent  for  the  Pink  Eye,  and  summonses 
to  appear  for  examination  for  discovery,  blew  upon 
him  a  veritable  paper  blizzard. 

The  English  syndicate  that  had  bought  the  mine 
was  served  with  notice  of  Haskell's  claim.  And 
Wright  soon  received  letters  of  strong  protest  from 


208  RED  MEEKINS 

the  British  Isles,  instead  of  Bank  of  England  notes. 

Red  Meekins  drank  to  drown  his  sorrow  and 
wept  copiously.  He  assailed  Peter  morning,  noon, 
and  night  to  settle.  "If  this  Gowganda  boom  busts," 
he  wailed,  "we'll  never  catch  another  sucker  to  buy 
the  Pink  Eye,  an'  if  the  vein  peters  out  we'll  be  on 
our  uppers  again,  an'  what's  worse  our  reputations'll 
be  wore  to  a  frazzle !" 

When  Peter  learned  that  Tom  Gilder  was  after 
him,  he  knew  it  was  a  hold-up,  a  sure  sign  that 
Haskell  had  no  evidence;  so  he  tried  to  bring  the 
case  on  for  hearing  before  the  Mining  Commission. 

But  the  Mining  Commission  said  it  was  a  case  for 
the  courts,  and  the  court  declared  it  was  a  question 
of  evidence.  Gilder  proved  that  he  had  two  men 
out  in  the  wilds  looking  for  witnesses  who  knew 
all  about  it;  also  intimated  that  Wright  had  bribed 
the  witnesses  to  keep  out  of  the  way. 

Gilder  chuckled  when  the  case  was  thrown  over 
to  the  next  sitting  of  the  court,  and  went  back  to  his 
dingy  little  office,  to  sit,  like  a  spider  in  his  web, 
waiting  for  the  coming  of  Peter  to  settle. 

And  Peter  crawled  reluctantly  up  the  narrow 
flight  of  stairs  that  led  to  the  dingy  office  the  very 
day  he  received  a  letter  from  the  English  syndicate 
stating  that  if  within  fifteen  days  they  were  not 
given  a  clear  title  to  the  Pink  Eye  they  would  cancel 
the  purchase  and  ask  him  to  return  the  hundred 
thousand  paid,  with  the  addition  of  their  costs. 

Peter  had  gone  to  Gilder's  office  in  the  fatuous 


THE  WEIGHT  OF  METAL  209 

belief  that  he  would  escape  with  a  payment  of  the 
ten  thousand  dollars  he  had  been  foolish  enough  to 
write  Haskell  about.  But  when  he  departed  he  left 
behind  properly  attested  documents  securing  to  the 
man  who  had  grubstaked  him  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars  out  of  the  purchase  price  of  the  Pink  Eye. 


IV 
THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE 

NIPISSING  was  proud  of  the  Cobalt  Bloom 
Hotel.  Its  huge  square  frame  dominated  the  ruck 
of  miners'  shacks  and  small  stores  like  a  military 
blockhouse ;  its  big  office  was  to  miners  and  men  of 
capital  what  the  Waldorf  corridor  is  to  a  Wall 
Street  broker. 

One  night  Red  Meekins  sat  in  a  chair  eyeing 
moodily  the  restless  throng  that  babbled  incessantly 
of  ten  thousand-ounce  ore,  and  cobalt  bloom,  and 
million-dollar  companies.  The  glib  lipping  of  large 
moneys  depressed  him;  for  he  was  decidedly  short 
of  working  sinew.  Perhaps  it  was  this  sense  of 
monetary  isolation  that  caused  his  eyes  to  follow 
admiringly  a  handsome  coachdog  that  hovered 
tenaciously  close  to  a  pair  of  legs  distinctly  labelled 
"English"  by  the  triple-rolled  whipcord  trousers 
that  adorned  them. 

Red's  attention  was  presently  diverted  from  the 
dog  by  a  big  foot  which,  lazily  thrust  out  from  a 
neighbouring  chair,  jabbed  him  in  the  calf.  He 
turned  morosely  to  inspect  this  socially  inclined 
neighbour.  His  eyes  failed  to  identify  a  gable 
shouldered  man  of  unnecessary  length,  who  peered 
at  him  humourously  out  of  watery  blue  eyes  set  in 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  211 

a  ridiculously  small  red  face,  which  seemed  all  but 
obliterated  by  a  wilderness  of  straw  coloured  whis- 
kers. 

Red's  puzzled  stare  appeared  entirely  amusing 
to  the  man  who  had  kicked  him.  He  laughed  and 
asked,  "How  are  ye,  Red?  How's  that  claim 
pannin'  out?" 

"I  guess  that  voice  is  Peloo  Trout,"  Meekins 
said  tentatively;  "but  them  muttonchops  is  a  new 
one  on  me." 

"They're  kinder  new  to  home  too,"  Trout,  ad- 
mitting the  identification,  answered.  "I  growed 
'em  in  the  way  of  business." 

"Say  Peloo,  what  kind  of  a  dog  is  that?"  Meekins 
queried. 

Trout  ran  his  fingers  through  the  whiskers  re- 
flectively, recalling  the  breeds  of  dogs  he  was 
familiar  with.  "I  know  them  kind,"  he  said  re- 
flectively; "but  I  jus'  kinder  forget  the  name.  I 
got  it!"  he  declared,  brightening  up.  "It's  the 
pokerdot  breed.  I  see  lots  of  'em  in  New  York, 
time  I  sold  the  Beaver  Dam  mine." 

"Danged  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  own  that  pup!" 
Red  exclaimed. 

Peloo  laughed. 

Red,  overconscious  of  his  lack  of  funds,  misun- 
derstood and  said  angrily,  "S'pose  you  think  I'm 
broke  again,  Peloo;  couldn't  even  buy  a  dog?" 

"  'Tain't  that,  Red.  There  ain't  nobody  in  this 
camp  got  money  enough  to  buy  that  pokerdot.  The 
man  what  owns  him  is  a  pal  of  mine.  That's  him 


212  RED  MEEKINS 

with  the  delicate  stomach,"  and  Peloo  indicated  a 
slim  young  man  whose  decided  stoop  had  originated 
this  description. 

"He  don't  look  up  to  much — not  to  own  such  a 
handsome  pup,"  Meekins  adjudged. 

"He's  a  Lord  in  London;  so's  his  father,"  Peloo 
explained.  "I've  got  him  on  the  string  right  enough 
too." 

"For  a  grubstake?"  Meekins  queried  listlessly. 

"I've  cut  out  prospectin',"  Peloo  declared  em- 
phatically. "Breathin'  mosquitoes  in  the  summer 
give  me  hay  fever,  an'  wallerin'  round  in  the  snow 
never  panned  out  nothin'  but  chilblains.  When  I 
see  mavericks  that's  been  bank  clerks  jus'  goin'  out 
to  the  bush  an'  locatin'  mines  worth  millions,  plumb 
out  of  fool's  luck,  I  see  it's  no  game  for  men." 

"What  you  doin',  then,  Peloo?" 

Trout  drew  a  card  from  his  coat  pocket  and 
passed  it  dramatically  to  Meekins.  "That's  me," 
he  advised,  Peloo  Trout  &  Co.,  Mining  Brokers. 
I'm  the  whole  works  too.  I  give  up  lookin'  for 
mines  what  couldn't  be  found  nohow,  an'  I'm  dealin' 
in  mines  as  is  found." 

"Looks  businesslike,"  Red  commented. 

"That's  why  I  grew  the  whiskers,"  and  Peloo 
stroked  the  bushy  entanglement  affectionately. 
"When  I  was  in  New  York,  time  I  sold  the  Beaver 
Dam,  I  see  all  the  brokers  was  clean  shaved  or  had  a 
sporty  beard,  an'  I  caught  onto  the  idee.  Bein'  in 
business,  a  feller  had  got  to  shave  every  day  if  he 
went  in  fer  that  kind  of  face  trimmin'.  That  cost  a 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  213 

heap  of  money;  so  I  jus'  let  mine  grow.  A  tall  man 
looks  all  right  in  whiskers,  anyway." 

"Well,  how's  business  in  mines,  Peloo?"  Meekins 
asked. 

"Well,  it's  lookin'  up.  I  got  three  or  four  fellers 
on  the  string  that's  got  slathers  of  capital.  A  man's 
got  to  graft  to  get  on  in  this  game.  When  I  see  a 
bunch  of  outsiders  come  into  the  hotel  I  jus'  look 
over  the  register  an'  get  their  names  an'  where  they 
come  from,  an'  then  it  don't  take  long  to  get  in 
with  'em." 

"See  Hank  Pilkins  knockin'  about?" 

Peloo  chuckled.     "I  heerd  you  evicted  him,  Red." 

"I  ain't  strong  on  'em  law  terms,  Peloo;  but  he 
ain't  been  back  to  the  shack  he  built  on  my  claim 
since  I  swatted  him." 

"I  heerd  he  got  a  black  eye  fer  jumpin'  your 
mine,  Red,  an'  that  the  Minin'  Commission  give  you 
a  patent  for  the  claim.  What're  you  goin'  to  do, 
Red,  develop  the  claim?" 

"On  what?" 

Peloo  chuckled  again.  "Cleaned  out,  eh?  Whis- 
ky an'  law'll  get  any  man's  bankroll,  I  don't  care 
how  big  'tis." 

Red's  prodigality  in  the  matter  of  bar  patronage 
was  so  much  a  matter  of  general  knowledge  that 
he  passed  over  Peloo's  animadversion  in  silence,  and 
the  latter  added : 

"What  you  oughter  do,  Red,  is  sell  out.  These 
suckers  ain't  goin'  to  keep  on  comin'  here  forever." 

"I  don't  want  to  sell,"  Red  declared  surlily. 


RED  MEEKINS 

"What  you  want  to  do,"  Peloo  reiterated,  "is  to 
sell  a  half  interest  for  what  you  figure  the  whole 
mine's  worth;  that's  the  game.  What  shape  is  your 
claim  in?" 

"It's  mostly  forty  acres  of  rocks,  labelled  R.  L. 
678  in  the  Recorder's  office." 

"That  description's  kinder  tame  for  sellin'  pur- 
poses. Most  of  'em  is  described  as  havin'  from 
seventeen  to  thirty  veins  carryin'  silver.  That's  a 
good  way  to  put  it,  Red,  carryin'  silver — see? 
That  kinder  makes  out  that  all  that's  needed  is 
capital  to  develop  an'  find  the  silver.  How  about 
that  vein  I  heerd  Pilkins  found?" 

"I  guess  he  must've  took  it  away  with  him,  Peloo. 
I  ain't  found  nothin'  but  a  stringer  of  calcite — that's 
between  me  an'  you." 

"Didn't  you  have  to  take  your  affidavit  that  you'd 
found  mineral  in  place  when  you  come  to  record  the 
claim?  Ain't  that  the  law?" 

"Danged  if  that  spotted  dog  don't  get  me!"  Red 
offered  in  the  way  of  evasion.  "Wisht  I  owned 
him!" 

"I  guess  it'd  be  a  heap  better  to  get  his  boss  to 
buy  a  half  interest  in  your  mine.  I  can  work  it,  if 
you'll  let  me  fix  up  the  description  of  the  property. 
I  could  steer  the  Hon.  Lord  Fonsby  up  against  the 
idee  of  findin'  that  big  vein  Pilkins  was  supposed  to 
have  staked  on.  Didn't  he  show  the  Recorder  a 
hunk  of  silver  ore,  an'  try  to  make  out  that  you'd 
found  nothin'?" 

"Yes." 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  215 

"Well,  where'dhe  find  it?" 

"Danged  if  I  know.  I've  punched  the  whole  forty 
acres  as  full  of  little  drill  holes  as  a  pepperbox,  an' 
I've  trenched  till  the  ground  looks  like  a  piece  of 
Scotch  plaid." 

"An'  got  nothin'?" 

Red  diplomatically  ignored  the  latter  question. 
"There's  a  big  ledge  of  rock  runnin'  clean  acrost 
the  claim,"  he  said  reflectively.  "It's  got  a  bald  face 
twenty  feet  high,  an'  I  kinder  thought  Pilkins 
might've  struck  a  vein  in  that,  same's  they  found  in 
the  La  Rose  an'  Nipissin'  at  first;  but  the  only 
danged  thing  unusual  from  one  end  to  the  other  is 
the  log  shack  Pilkins  built  plumb  up  ag'in'  this  cliff 
when  I  was  away  in  Toronto." 

"Time  you  was  boozin',  eh?" 

"Time  you  wasn't  payin'  for  whatever  I  was 
doin' !"  Red  answered  crossly. 

"There  ain't  nothin'  to  get  mad  about,"  Peloo 
reasoned.  "There's  Pilkins,  he  ain't  never  been 
knowed  to  stand  drinks  for  the  crowd.  That's  why 
we  was  all  glad  when  you  knocked  the  tar  out  of 
him.  An'  speakin'  of  that,"  Peloo  continued,  "if 
you  want  me  to  make  a  dicker  with  Lord  Fonsby, 
we  got  to  make  a  splurge  about  your  claim — see?" 

"How,   Peloo?" 

"It  would  be  a  good  idee  to  treat  the  whole  house 
right  away.  I'd  put  it  up  to  the  fellers  what  was 
doin'  in  the  way  of  a  deal,  and  first  thing  you'd 
know  your  mine'd  have  a  rep'tation  like  Nipissin'. 
It's  business,  that's  what  it  is.  There's  two  or  three 


216  RED  MEEKINS 

New  York  fellers  here  buyin'  mines,  an'  they'd  all 
get  tryin'  to  beat  each  other  to  it,  first  thing  you'd 
know." 

"I  ain't  got  the  money,"  Red  objected  despond- 
ently. 

"I  got  it,"  Peloo  declared,  "an'  if  I'm  your  agent, 
gettin'  ten  per  cent,  I'll  grubstake  you  for  drinks 
on  the  house  an'  other  necessary  expenses." 

Meekins  finally  agreed  to  Broker  Trout's  pro- 
posal, and  the  latter  circulated  among  the  com- 
placent miners,  everyone  of  whom  was  entirely 
willing  to  help  Red  land  a  man  of  means,  especially 
an  Englishman. 

This  part  of  the  game  was  familiar  to  Meekins. 
He  acted  his  role  with  enthusiasm.  At  the  proper 
time  he  rose  to  his  feet  and  said,  "Gentlemen, 
there's  to  be  a  spirit  meetin'  in  the  next  room.  If 
you'll  kindly  take  your  partners.  This  is  on  me." 

A  general  exodus  to  the  bar  ensued.  Peloo,  tak- 
ing advantage  of  the  turmoil,  brought  Meekins  and 
the  Englishman  together. 

"This  is  the  Hon.  Lord  Reginald  Fonsby  of 
London,  and  this  is  Mr.  Red  Meekins — 'Lucky  Red' 
he's  called — who's  discovered  the  greatest  silver 
proposition  since  the  camp  was  nothin'  but  a  bald 
headed  knob  of  rock." 

"I  was  takin'  stock  of  your  pup,"  Red  blurted  out. 
"I  see  husky  train  dogs,  an'  them  sausage  dogs  of 
the  Dutchmen,  an'  most  all  kinds  of  dogs  in  my 
time;  but  that  pokerdot  breed  has  got  'em  all 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  217 

skinned  for  looks."  Red  reached  down  and  affec- 
tionately stroked  the  delighted  animal's  head. 

The  "Hon.  Lord's"  smile  of  amusement  turned 
to  one  of  satisfaction.  "Yes,  by  Jove!"  he  said. 
"Achilles  has  been  pretty  well  about  with  me." 

"Step  along  into  the  bar,  Lord  Fonsby,"  Peloo 
admonished. 

As  Red  followed  he  whispered  to  Peloo,  "What 
did  he  say  the  dog's  name  was?" 

"Kinder  think  it  was  Axle  Grease.  Them  dogs 
runs  under  a  wagon  most  of  the  time,  an'  it  may  be 
a  kind  of  English  joke." 

Peloo's  recruits  acted  their  parts  well.  They  lav- 
ished encomiums  upon  Red  and  his  new  mine. 
Three  young  Yale  men  who  had  come  to  the  new 
silver  field  looking  for  adventure  and  investment 
were  in  the  seventh  campus  of  joy;  they  joined 
hands  and  did  a  Maypole  dance  around  Meekins. 
An  overzealous  henchman  seared  the  Honourable's 
cheek  with  his  hot  breath  as  he  whispered  confiden- 
tially, "That  Red  Meekins  is  the  feller  what  discov- 
ered the  Nipissing  mine;  only  they  beat  him  out  of 
it.  He's  found  half  the  mines  about  here;  but  he's 
too  modest.  That's  Red's  weak  streak;  he's  too 
cussed  modest " 

He  was  cut  short  by  a  howl  of  anguish.  Some 
one  had  stepped  on  the  pokerdot  dog. 

Red  reached  down  and  lifted  the  dog  to  the  bar, 
saying,  "Boys,  I'd  rather  some  galoot  swatted  me 
than  hurt  that  pup.  He's  the  slickest  thing  in  dog 
flesh  I  ever  see.  Gentlemen!"  Red  cleared  his 


218  RED  MEEKINS 

throat  and  repeated  solemnly,  "Gentlemen !"  There 
was  a  hush  of  attention,  and  he  proceeded,  "I've  got 
a  hunch,  an  idee.  I'm  goin'  to  name  my  mine  after 
this  pokerdot  breed  of  pup.  I  hereby  label  her  the 
Spotted  Dog  mine !" 

There  was  a  yell  of  applause.  When  it  was  sub- 
dued by  the  command  of  Peloo,  Red  added  : 

"The  drinks  is  on  me  as  a  christening  an'  it  runs 
into  wine.  Barkeep,  set  up  the  swan-neck  bottles, 
them  with  the  goldy  locks." 

Peloo  turned  pale;  for  he  would  have  to  pay. 
Surely  Red  was  making  the  bluff  unnecessarily 
strong. 

As  they  drank  the  wine  Red  whispered  to  Peloo, 
"P'r'aps  that  Hon'rable'll  feel  it's  up  to  him  to  give 
me  that  pokerdot.  Pour  him  another  glass  of  wine; 
it'll  make  him  loosen  up." 

"You  are  sure  goin'  some,  Red,"  Peloo  com- 
mented; "but  kinder  ease  up  on  the  buyin'  now. 
You  done  your  share." 

As  the  mine  boosters  finished  their  wine  and  were 
turning  away,  Fonsby  slipped  the  collar  from  his 
dog's  neck  and  handed  it  to  the  bartender.  Then 
when  they  were  in  the  outer  room  he  told  Achilles 
to  get  his  collar.  The  dog  went  back  and,  standing 
on  his  hind  legs,  looked  pleadingly  at  the  drink 
dispenser.  The  latter  handed  over  the  leather 
strap,  and  Achilles  came  bounding  out  to  his  master. 

At  that  instant  Hank  Pilkins  entered  the  room 
with  a  brindle  bulldog  named  Esau  at  his  heels. 
Esau  was  the  bully  of  Nipissing  in  a  canine  way, 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  219 

and  when  he  saw  a  dog  seemingly  in  some  kind  of 
scuffle  his  perverted  fighting  instincts  carried  him 
into  the  fray  with  ferocious  alacrity.  In  a  second  a 
wild  scrimmage  ensued.  Men  were  bowled  over 
like  ninepins  by  the  fighting  bodies  caroming  against 
their  legs. 

Between  the  casual  interference  of  sprawling  men 
and  the  great  activity  of  Achilles,  Esau  missed  his 
thrust  for  the  enemy's  throat,  and  found,  to  his 
angry  astonishment,  a  set  of  long  fangs  buried  in 
the  back  of  his  neck.  He  was  being  considerably 
chewed. 

Pilkins  saw  this,  and  with  an  oath  swung  a  heavy 
boot  into  the  ribs  of  Achilles.  As  he  poised  himself 
for  another  kick  a  strong  hand  gripped  his  coat  col- 
lar, and  he  was  elevated  parabolically,  to  descend 
head  first  full  on  top  of  his  pugnacious  dog.  Scram- 
bling to  his  feet,  he  faced  Red  Meekins,  who  said 
with  quiet  menace: 

"I  don't  stand  for  no  man  kickin'  a  dog  as  is  only 
pertectin'  hisself  ag'in'  a  fool  fightin'  dog.  You  jus' 
keep  that  Esau  to  home,  or  somebody'll  ,put  a  pill 
into  him." 

Pilkins  raised  his  voice  in  anger;  but  the  manager 
of  the  hotel  came  between  the  two  and  assured  Pil- 
kins that  he  would  have  him  thrown  into  the  street 
if  he  didn't  subside. 

Fonsby  held  out  his  hand  to  Red,  saying:  "By 
Jove !  Mr.  Meekins,  you  did  that  deuced  cleverly. 
Awfully  obliged,  you  know." 

Peloo,  who  had  gone  over  the  falls  in  the  little 


220  RED  MEEKINS 

cataract  of  men  that  had  engulfed  the  dogs,  heard 
this  as  he  stood  adjusting  his  disarranged  whiskers, 
and  promptly  seized  upon  the  opportunity  to  intro- 
duce business. 

"There's  a  little  room  behind  the  bar.  Let's  git 
out  of  this  noisy  crowd,"  he  said. 

"By  Jove !  that's  a  corking  idea,"  Fonsby  agreed, 
"and  you  gentlemen  will  join  me  in  a  social  glass,  I 
hope." 

Peloo  nudged  Meekins  in  the  ribs  with  his  elbow 
as  they  entered  the  private  room,  and  pulling  a  chair 
to  a  little  table  he  said,  "Have  a  seat,  your  Hon. 
Lordship,"  adding  in  more  flippant  oratory,  "Yank 
that  stool  up,  Red!" 

"It's  jolly  complimentary  of  you,  Mr.  Trout," 
Fonsby  remarked  as  he  sat  down,  "but  I'm  not  a 
Lord,  by  any  means.  The  governor  is;  but  he's 
hale  and  hearty." 

"P'r'aps  I  kinder  got  mixed  in  individuals,"  Peloo 
hazarded.  "Readin'  in  the  papers  about  Lord 
Fonsby  I  guess  made  me  think  you  was  him." 

"The  governor  is  Lord  Ivington,"  Fonsby  ex- 
plained, rising  to  touch  a  button  in  the  wall. 

"He's  kiddin'  us  about  them  names,"  Meekins 
whispered  to  Peloo. 

"It's  his  stepfather,  Red;  that's  how  the  names 
don't  agree,"  Trout  advised. 

As  Fonsby  returned  to  his  seat,  Red  said,  "Peloo 
was  tellin'  me  you  didn't  want  to  sell  this  pup,"  and 
Meekins  caressed  the  shapely  mottled  head  which 
the  dog,  knowing  out  of  instinct  about  the  man's 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  221 

sympathy,  had  thrust  across  his  knee.  Fonsby's 
face  showed  mystification,  and  Peloo  came  to  the 
rescue : 

"Soon's  Red  sees  that  dog  he  was  fer  buyin'  him, 
an'  I  jus'  said  that  I  guessed  there  wasn't  nothin' 
doin'  in  that  line." 

The  door  of  the  room  opened  and  a  man,  answer- 
ing the  call  of  the  bell,  entered,  followed  by  a 
roughly  dressed  prospector.  The  latter  took  a  quick 
look  at  the  group  by  the  table,  and  said: 

"That  New  York  chap  is  goin'  out  on  the  train  to- 
night, Red,  an'  he  wants  to  know  if  you're  goin'  to 
make  him  a  price  on  that  mine  of  yours  or  not.  He 
says  if  you  want  to  deal  he'll  hook  up  with  you  in 
half  an  hour.  What'll  I  tell  him?" 

Meekins  undiplomatically  opened  his  mouth  in 
astonishment.  It  was  the  first  he  had  heard  of  a 
New  Yorker  with  an  offer;  but  Peloo  scraped  the 
toe  of  his  boot  up  and  down  Red's  shin  beneath  the 
table  and  took  the  latter's  answer  upon  himself. 

"Me  an'  Red  an'  this  gentleman  is  pyrty  busy, 
Tom.  Jus'  tell  your  friend  that  Red'll  see  him  in 
New  York." 

"What you  got  to  do  with  it,  Peloo?"  Tom  asked 
with  affected  anger. 

"Considerable — considerable,  Tom.  Mr.  Meek- 
ins  has  placed  his  mine  business  in  my  office,  an'  the 
mine  ain't  fer  sale." 

"Does  that  go,  Red?"  Tom  queried. 

"It  does.    Peloo  Trout  &  Co.  is  my  agent." 


RED  MEEKINS 

Tom  strode  angrily  from  the  room.  Peloo 
chuckled  and  turning  to  Fonsby  explained. 

"Mr.  Meekins  has  jus'  plumb  give  away  mines 
that  has  turned  out  worth  millions;  but  he  ain't 
goin'  to  sell  this  one  fer  the  price  of  a  prospect — not 
if  Peloo  Trout  can  help  it!  There's  been  about  a 
dozen  of  'em  New  York  promoters  tryin'  to  get  on 
the  soft  side  of  Red.  You  see,"  he  continued,  "that 
Pilkins  that  owns  the  dog  your  pup  licked  found  the 
biggest  kind  of  a  silver  vein  on  Red's  claim  an'  tried 
to  beat  him  out  of  it.  They  all  know  this  an'  are 
dead  stuck  on  gettin'  his  mine  on  the  cheap." 

"I'd  like  to  see  that  vein,  Mr.  Meekins,"  Fonsby 
said  innocently. 

"Danged  if  I  wouldn't  too!"  Red  blurted  out 
with  even  more  innocence.  Then  he  gave  a  sharp 
yelp  of  pain;  for  Peloo's  boot  had  nearly  cracked 
his  shinbone  beneath  the  table. 

"Red's  lookin'  fer  it,"  Peloo  advised,  "'cause  Pil- 
kins natur'lly  wouldn't  give  his  find  away.  An'  it 
jus'  seems's  Pilkins  had  struck  a  streak  of  runnin' 
up  ag'in'  Red's  fist.  That's  the  second  time  he's  had 
a  rough  an'  tumble  argyment  with  Red." 

As  Peloo  held  forth  out  of  his  plethora  of  words, 
he  watched  the  Englishman's  face  from  beneath  his 
shaggy  eyebrows,  reading  the  look  of  intense  in- 
terest that  brightened  Fonsby's  blue  eyes. 

"Have  you  explored  much  for  the  vein?"  Fonsby 
asked. 

"He's  jus'  been  rootin'  round,"  Peloo  hastened  to 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  223 

substitute  for  the  frank  admission  he  was  certain 
Red  would  make. 

"I've  been  kinder  shy  on  capital,"  Red  declared. 

"Lost  his  money  when  that  bank  in  Toronto 
busted  last  winter,"  Peloo  explained. 

This  was  just  a  trifle  sudden  for  Red's  equa- 
nimity. He  laughed. 

"You  take  your  losses  good  naturedly.  I  like 
that,"  Fonsby  remarked. 

"I  was  jus'  thinkin'  of  the  feller  I  hired  to  locate 
that  vein,"  Red  explained,  fancying  he  had  detected 
a  drawl  of  suspicion  in  the  other's  remark.  "He 
was  one  of  them  fellers  that's  got  a  kind  of  crotched 
switch  fer  locatin'  wells  an'  things.  He  tramped 
purty  nigh  all  over  that  forty  acres,  an'  all  of  a 
suddent  he  stopped  still  as  though  he'd  been 
paralyzed  in  his  j'ints,  his  face  all  twisted  up,  and 
the  switch  that  he  was  grippin'  with  both  hands  com- 
menced to  dip.  Only  I'm  kinder  mixed.  It  was 
an  electric  patent  kind  of  crotch  he  had — that's  the 
idee.  Then  he  says  to  me,  'It's  down  ther,e  !'  Then 
me  an'  a  man  trenched  fer  two  days,  an'  fin'lly  we 
come  on  a  groundhog's  nest." 

Fonsby  sat  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed.  "What 
did  the  man  say?"  he  asked  finally. 

"I  never  heerd.     I  guess  he's  runnin'  yet." 

"Red  got  hot  under  the  collar  an'  kinder  went 
fer  that  feller,"  Peloo  elucidated. 

Fonsby  suddenly  straightened  up  in  his  chair  and 
said,  "Look  here  I  I  don't  mind  saying  that  I've 


RED  MEEKINS 

got  deuced  interested  in  your  mine,  Mr.  Meekins, 
and  in  yourself,  too,  to  be  candid." 

Red  had  to  suppress  another  yelp  of  pain.  Be- 
neath the  table  Peloo's  toe  was  cautioning  him  to 
be  wary. 

"You  said  something  about  lack  of  capital," 
Fonsby  continued.  "Now,  I've  come  here  to  invest 
a  few  pounds  if  I  find  something — well,  something, 
you  know." 

"Red's  got  it — he's  got  somethin'  big!"  and 
Peloo  wagged  his  bushy  head  sagaciously. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  you  do,"  Red  offered.  "You 
come  down  an'  bunk  with  me  in  the  shack,  an'  when 
I've  found  the  big  vein  I'll  give  you  first  chance  to 
buy  the  mine." 

"By  Jove  !  that  might  cost  a  pretty  penny !  You'd 
want  a  million.  Supposing  I  buy  in  now,  and  take 
a  chance." 

"  'Tain't  for  sale,"  Peloo  declared,  wagging  his 
head  despondently. 

"I  uster  say  that  afore  I  see  this  dog  of  yours," 
Red  declared;  "but  if  you  want  to  come  down  an' 
prospect,  "an'll  bring  this  pup  to  the  shack,  I  ain't 
sayin'  we  mightn't  make  a  deal." 

"What's  a  half  interest  worth?" 

Peloo  held  his  breath,  fearing  Meekins  would  be 
too  modest  in  his  demands. 

"You  best  come  down  with  me  to-morrow  an' 
look  the  mine  over,"  Red  answered,  "an'  if  it  looks 
good  I'll  trade  a  half  interest  for  this  pup  an'  ten 
thousand  dollars  to  boot." 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  225 

Laughing  over  Red's  unique  proposal,  the  Eng- 
lishman agreed  at  least  to  inspect  the  mine. 

When  the  two  men  had  parted  from  Fonsby,  on 
the  way  out  they  met  Tom.  "What  do  I  get  out 
of  it?"  the  latter  asked. 

"Out  of  what?"  Pelo  queried. 

"Out  of  the  sale.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  let 
English  get  away  from  you?  When  I  see  you  go 
in  there  together  I  knowed  what  was  doin',  an' 
thought  I'd  boost  things  by  springin'  that  yarn  about 
a  feller  wantin'  to  buy.  Didn't  it  help  none?" 

"You  jus'  leave  that  to  Red,"  Peloo  advised. 
"Guess  he'll  make  it  right  with  you,  Tom." 

"That's  good  enough  for  me,"  Tom  answered. 
"Goodnight,  fellers.  Make  your  check  payable  at 
par,  Red." 

The  result  of  Fonsby's  visit  to  the  Spotted  Dog 
mine  was  a  deal  through  which  he  became  a  half 
owner.  Strangely  enough,  the  illusiveness  of  the 
big  vein  appealed  to  him  as  a  matter  of  exciting  in- 
terest. Unknown  to  the  partners,  and  quite  beyond 
the  value  they  placed  upon  his  intelligence,  Fonsby 
had  interviewed  the  recording  officer.  With  boyish 
enthusiasm  discarding  the  triple-rolled  trousers  for 
a  pair  of  heavy  overalls,  he  rolled  up  his  sleeves  and 
went  to  work,  perhaps  with  more  energy  than  apti- 
tude. 

Such  little  idiosyncrasies  as  trying  to  clean  a  lamp  * 
chimney  with  a  stick  of  dynamite,  its  end  twisted  in 
a  handkerchief,  caused  Red  to  exercise  a  wise  super- 
vision which  prevented  actual  disaster — at  least  up 


226  RED  MEEKINS 

to  the  time  Achilles  brought  on  the  end  of  all  things. 

There  always  remained  in  Nipissing  as  a  matter 
of  discussion  the  question  of  which  dog  would  have 
licked  the  other  the  night  they  hooked  up  if  Pilkins 
hadn't  interfered.  The  owner  of  Esau  was  ready 
to  bet  a  thousand  dollars  that  his  dog  could  "eat 
up  the  piebald  mongrel  that  Meekins  chums  with" ; 
while  Red  avowed  that  he  wasn't  fighting  dogs  for  a 
living,  but  that  if  they  ever  got  together  on  their 
own  account  he'd  back  the  spotted  pup. 

Red  and  Fonsby  had  been  trenching  and  blasting 
for  two  months,  and  with  meagre  results.  They 
had  driven  a  small  tunnel  into  the  rocky  cliff,  fol- 
lowing a  calcite  vein  that  at  times  held  a  blush  of 
cobalt  bloom  as  rosy  as  the  cheek  of  a  girl  and  again 
bleaching  out  in  barrenness  to  an  alabaster  white. 
One  morning  Red  drilled  a  hole  in  the  tunnel,  and, 
after  their  midday  meal  in  the  shack,  went  to  a  little 
pit  where  the  dynamite  was  stored,  returning  with 
four  sticks  of  the  ferocious  explosive. 

"That  drill  this  mornin'  kinder  sounded  to  me 
as  though  it  was  in  metal.  We'll  put  a  shot  in  an' 
rip  her  up,"  he  said. 

Followed  by  the  ever  faithful  Achilles,  the  two 
men  plodded  leisurely  to  their  drift  in  the  cliff. 
Fonsby  held  the  four  sticks  of  dynamite,  handing 
•  three  of  them,  one  by  one,  to  Meekins,  who  tamped 
them  home  with  due  caution  in  the  drill  hole,  attach- 
ing a  fuse.  Then  he  said: 

"Light  the  fuse,  Fonsby,  while  I  gather  up  these 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  227 

tools.  Then  we'll  get  out.  P'r'aps  when  we  come 
back  this  hole'll  be  full  of  silver." 

Fonsby  put  the  fourth  stick  of  dynamite  down, 
struck  a  match,  and  lighted  the  fuse. 

Red,  having  picked  up  his  tools,  called,  "Come 
on !  Sometimes  these  fuses  run." 

He  was  already  on  the  move.  Fonsby  followed 
on  the  run,  forgetting  all  about  the  finger  of  de- 
struction he  had  discarded. 

Achilles  noticed  this  oversight,  or  perhaps  he 
thought  it  a  variation  of  the  collar  game.  At  any 
rate  he  harked  back  to  his  drill  in  retrieving, 
grabbed  up  in  his  jaws  the  little  brown  fiend,  added 
the  dangling  fuse  that  was  so  like  his  leading  strap, 
dislodging  it  with  one  sharp  pull,  and  cantered  joy- 
ously after  the  fleeing  men. 

As  Red  galloped  he  cast  a  look  over  his  shoulder 
to  make  sure  that  Spot  was  following.  One  glance 
assured  him  that  Spot  was,  and  that  he  was  charged 
with  dynamite. 

"My  God!  Man,  run!  Run  for  it!", he  gasped, 
and  Fonsby,  instinctively  turning  his  head,  saw  the 
Nemesis  on  their  track. 

He  quickened  his  pace.  So  did  Red.  Their 
heavy  boots  threw  gravel,  and  all  records  for  speed 
were  being  smashed. 

But  the  dog  was  in  a  hurry  to  deliver  the  goods. 
He  too  was  showing  speed.  The  fuse  was  a  handi- 
cap on  the  canine — which  was  providential.  Once 
it  swirled  round  his  legs  like  a  whiplash  and  the 
sputtering  end  singed  him  in  the  belly.  He  rolled 


228  RED  MEEKINS 

himself  out  of  the  entanglement,  and  the  men  gained 
twenty  yards.  They  had  just  breasted  a  little  hill 
which  lay  as  quiet  and  peaceful  in  the  afternoon 
sun  as  though  no  travelling  volcano  was  on  the 
move.  Now  Red  and  Fonsby  were  on  the  level, 
racing  for  the  shack,  while  Spot,  good  Spot,  was 
down  in  the  little  hollow  gathering  up  the  stick  of 
dynamite  that  had  been  switched  from  his  jaws  by 
a  catch  of  the  trailing  fuse  in  the  splintered  end  of 
a  log  he  had  short-cut  rather  sharply. 

In  all  history  of  explosives  probably  no  giant  of 
expansion  had  ever  been  so  tolerant  of  misuse  as 
the  cartridge  Spot  handled  so  cavalierly.  It  is  one 
of  the  eccentricities  of  dynamite  that  it  erupts  when 
it  gets  good  and  ready, — patient  at  times  under 
maltreatment,  and  again  hasty  as  a  red  headed 
vixen. 

And  now,  as  Spot  swung  free  the  fuse,  the 
brown  power  lay  in  his  compressed  jaws  as  in- 
nocuous as  a  wedge  of  cheese.  He  scurried  blithely 
up  the  hill,  rounding  into  the  home  stretch  at  its 
crest  as  Red  panted: 

"We'll  make  the  shack !  Shut  the  door  and  take 
a  chance — we  got  to!" 

As  they  journeyed  the  sprinters  saw,  with  aston- 
ishment, men  in  the  shack.  In  fact,  Pilkins  stood  in 
the  door.  Evidently  Pilkins  had  announced  the  ve- 
hement coming  of  Meekins  &  Co.;  for  other  faces 
thrust  themselves  into  the  opening,  grinning  faces 
that  contemplated  the  joyous  spectacle  of  Meekins 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  229 

and  the  English  aristocrat  evidently  engaged  in  a 
foot  race. 

Cries  of  "Come  on,  Red!  You  win  in  a  walk! 
Go  it,  English!"  rent  the  air.  "Fifty  dollars  on 
Red!"  some  one  yelled. 

The  bulldog's  heavy  head  showed  between  the 
legs  of  Pilkins,  his  yellow  teeth  bared  in  a  snarl: 
for  his  little  pig  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  his  enemy 
trailing  the  Marathoners. 

Red  saw  Fonsby  cast  a  glance  backward,  and 
panted,  "How's  Spot  makin'  it?  Is  he  comin'?" 

"Rather!"  the  Englishman  answered  laconically, 
conserving  his  energy  for  increased  speed. 

Meekins  rose  to  the  spurt,  and  they  raced  neck 
and  neck.  Ten  yards  from  the  shack,  five  yards, 
the  gravel  path  howling  with  the  beat  of  their  heavy 
boots!  Now  they  had  gained  the  doorway,  and  a 
jocular  hand  fell  on  Red's  shoulder,  almost  yanking 
him  on  his  face,  as  its  owner  cried  exultantly,  "You 
win,  Red — by  a  nose!" 

With  a  hoarse  cry  Meekins  threw  the  speaker  off 
and  grabbed  the  door  to  shut  it.  It  never  budged, 
because  Peloo  Trout's  enormous  bulk  rested  in  a 
chair  tilted  back  against  its  pine  boards. 

A  snarling  yelp  from  Esau  caused  Red  to  swing 
on  his  heel.  Spot  had  arrived.  He  stood  in  the 
chip  yard,  the  bristles  on  his  back  erect  in  anger, 
and  in  his  jaws  the  slim  brown  stick  of  dynamite, 
within  a  foot  of  it  the  sizzling  end  of  the  fuse. 

With  head  low  hung  and  legs  wide  set,  Esau  stood 
on  the  outer  step  ready  for  the  fighting  charge. 


230  RED  MEEKINS 

Others  had  seen  the  terrible  picture,  and  when 
Red's  wild  cry  of  "Run  for  it,  boys!"  rang  out,  fol- 
lowed by  a  rush  through  the  other  door,  they  com- 
plied with  alacrity,  some  of  them  outpacing  Red, 
for  he  was  considerably  blown.  Even  Pilkins  de- 
serted his  dog  and  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  others. 

Fonsby,  slim  of  limb,  held  his  own  with  the  run- 
ners and  led  the  retreat  down  a  hill  which  sloped 
away  from  the  house  they  were  evacuating  to  the 
smiling  waters  of  Egg  Lake,  which  lay,  like  the 
Pool  of  Siloam,  the  objective  point  of  their  hasty 
pilgrimage. 

The  demeanour  of  Esau  and  Spot  during  this 
trying  time  must  pass  unrecorded;  but  at  the  instant 
Fonsby  reached  the  lake  the  ground  trembled  under 
their  feet,  the  atmosphere  crackled  like  breaking 
glass,  and  they  saw  the  shack  shoot  upward,  its 
logs  twisting  and  writhing  in  the  air,  accompanied 
by  a  crashing  roar  as  though  seventeen  peals  of 
thunder  had  merged  into  one. 

Red,  half  paralyzed,  wiped  his  dripping  brow 
and  gazed  out  of  stupid  eyes  toward  the  place  where 
his  habitation  had  stood. 

Pilkins  crawled  out  of  the  water,  wrung  out  the 
tail  of  his  coat,  and  cursed. 

"By  Jove !  that  was  a  close  call !"  Fonsby  de- 
clared presently. 

"Is  there  any  more  to  go  off?"  Peloo  asked. 
"  'Cause  if  there  is  I'm  goin'  to  chase  the  black 
bass." 

Something  of  the  disaster  heated  the  quick  blood 


THE  SPOTTED  DOG  MINE  231 

of  Meekins.  He  turned  savagely  on  Pilkins. 
"What  was  you  an'  your  bandy  legged  cur  doin'  in 
my  shack?  What  was  all  you  fellers  doin'  there?" 
With  glowering  eye  he  swept  the  little  group. 

Peloo  uttered  mollifying  words.  "It  wasn't 
Pilkins's  fault,  Red,  not  exactly.  The  fellers 
kidded  him  that  he  dassn't  set  Esau  up  ag'in'  Spot, 
an'  we  jus'  come  down  to  talk  it  over.  We  was 
sorter  restin'  an'  waitin'  fer  you  to  come  home. 
That's  all,  Red.  You  can't  blame  the  fellers. 
How'd  they  know  that  Spot  was  toting  dynamite 
round  fer  you?" 

"By  Jove!"  Fonsby  broke  in  with.  "I  think  it 
would  be  a  jolly  good  idea  to  go  up  and  see  what 
condition  things  really  are  in." 

Quiescently  they  all  followed  Red.  Where  the 
shack  had  stood  there  was  a  scooped  out  hollow  as 
though  a  steam  shovel  had  been  busy  for  a  week. 
A  red  flannel  shirt  flagged  the  breeze  from  a  soli- 
tary poplar  twenty  yards  away.  Occasional  pieces 
of  hardware  suggested  that  at  some  time  men  had 
eaten  in  those  parts.  Where  the  shack  Had  leaned 
its  log  shoulder  against  the  cliff  a  jagged  cut  showed. 

Red  had  gone  forward  to  this  narrow  slice  in  the 
rocky  wall  and  was  examining  it  closely.  "Here, 
Fonsby!"  he  cried  in  a  voice  of  excitement. 

The  Englishman  answered  the  call,  followed  by 
the  others,  Pilkins  alone  hanging  back. 

"I  guess  that's  the  vein  we've  been  lookin'  fer," 
Meekins  said  in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  excite- 
ment, as  he  put  his  palm  on  a  glinting  blue-gray  vein 


RED  MEEKINS 

of  metal  six  inches  wide,  which  stood  clearly  defined 
in  the  compress  of  the  duller  toned  rock. 

"That's  silver — smaltite,  right  enough!"  Peloo 
declared,  as  he  picked  with  his  pocket  knife  at  the 
vein. 

"That's  why  you  built  the  shack  ag'in'  the  bank — 
to  hide  the  vein!"  Red  snarled,  turning  to  Pilkins, 
who  stood  in  sullen  anger,  realizing  that  accident 
had  disclosed  the  silver  vein  he  thought  safe  hidden 
until  the  log  walls  of  the  shack  would  have  rotted. 

"Yes,  boys,  I  guess  that  lead'll  run  into  about 
all  I  ever  want,"  Red  continued  in  a  hesitating  voice ; 
"but  I  don't  know  as  I  feel  jus'  like  whoopin'  her  up. 
I  guess  there  ain't  no  chance  that  Spot  hung  to- 
gether when  the  shot  ripped  a  hole  in  the  ground 
like  that."  Red  turned  away  and  took  a  circle  of 
the  yawning  pit,  casually  picking  up  bits  of  wreck- 
age, and  when  he  came  back  his  voice  was  steadier. 
"I  guess  I'll  put  a  kind  of  little  mark  of  silver  some- 
where about  here,  with  Spot's  name  on  it.  Guess 
it  wouldn't  seem  too  foolish,  'cause  I  got  awful  fond 
of  that  dog." 


BILLY 

SILVER  CITY  had  the  juvenile  characteristics  of 
a  sprawling  pup  blinking  with  wondering  eyes  upon 
a  newly  discovered  world.  Six  months  before, 
Foghorn  McLean  had  found  a  big  vein  of  silver  in 
this  wilderness  fifty  miles  from  Cobalt,  and  now  the 
plentitude  of  rock  and  trees  had  its  primeval  con- 
tours thrown  out  of  joint  by  the  aggressive  squares 
of  logshacks  and  canvas  tents. 

Trout's  Hotel  was  distinctive  in  its  individuality. 
It  was  of  progressive  architectural  design.  Against 
a  central  log  building  lighter  board  structures  leaned 
with  confiding  faith  in  the  stability  of  the  parent 
abode. 

Red  Meekins  had  just  eaten  a  hearty  dinner  in 
Trout's  after  two  weeks  of  toil  and  lean  fare  out  on 
his  new  claim,  the  Big  Pine,  and,  as  he  drew  a  chair 
up  beside  the  host,  Peloo  Trout,  in  the  front  room 
that  was  office  and  almost  everything  else,  he  felt 
like  one  who  had  returned  to  his  own  fireside. 

"How's  tricks,  Peloo?"  he  asked  conventionally. 

"Business  is  hummin',"  Trout  answered. 

"I  knowed  it  would  be  when  I  heerd  you  had 
staked  this  hotel,"  Red  declared. 

"Help's  the  worst,"  Peloo  growled.  "There's  a 
233 


234  RED  MEEKINS 

Swede  come  in  with  his  fam'ly,  an'  I  got  his  girl  to 
sling  hash.  The  Chink  cook's  purty  good  too." 

"Better  than  minin',''  Red  observed.  "Bunk- 
houses  is  sure  winners  in  a  new  camp." 

"Bunkhouses  p'r'aps  is,  Red,"  there  was  both 
asperity  and  reproach  in  Peloo's  tones;  "but  the- way 
I  feed  guests  there  ain't  much  in  it — not  when  they 
been  workin'  out  on  claims  for  a  couple  of  weeks, 
leastwise." 

Red  puffed  at  an  ill  conditioned  cigar  he  had  been 
struggling  with,  looked  meditatively  at  the  ceiling, 
and,  not  readily  finding  a  happy  retort,  asked  at  a 
tangent,  "How's  Billy  Forbes  doin'  ?  Holding  down 
his  job  purty  good?" 

Peloo  turned  his  face,  allowing  his  eyes  to  rest 
in  a  long,  contemplative  gaze  upon  a  slender,  dark 
eyed  man  who  stood  behind  a  rude  counter  in  a  cor- 
ner of  the  room  talking  to  one  who  leaned  with  a 
suggestion  of  insolence  in  his  whole  poise  against 
the  plank  that  separated  them.  The  slender  man's 
face  was  strikingly  pleasant  to  look  upon, — frank, 
open,  the  suggested  weakness  of  the  lower  part 
somewhat  balanced  by  lines  indicating  a  develop- 
ment of  character  out  of  experience. 

"Billy  seems  quite  to  home,"  Meekins  spoke  in 
the  way  of  recalling  Peloo's  attention  to  his  ques- 
tion. 

"Billy's  done  fu'st  rate  since  he  took  holt,"  Trout 
answered.  "How'd  he  come  to  leave  Big  Jake's 
j'int  in  Cobalt  an'  come  here  with  you,  Red?" 
Peloo's  question  was  asked  carelessly;  but  his  eyes 


BILLY  235 

looked  into  Meekins's  with  a  shrewd  interest  quite 
at  variance  with  his  assumed  tone. 

"He  was  boss  hash  slinger  in  the  dinin'  room  at 
Big  Jake's,  an'  he  was  that  perlite  an'  obligin'  I  took 
a  shine  to  Billy,"  Red  answered  vividly. 

"Oh,  jus'  come  along  'cause  you  like  him,  eh?" 

"Not  exactly,  Peloo.  I  knowed  you  was  buildin' 
this  here  bunkhouse " 

"It's  a  hotel,  Red." 

"An'  was  like  to  get  busy  with  brokerin'  mines 
again,"  Red  continued,  ignoring  the  interruption, 
"an'  I  figgered  Billy  was  jus'  the  kind  of  a  kid  to 
manage  this  part  of  your  enterprises." 

"An'  he  come,"  Peloo  summed  up. 

"Not  at  fu'st;  he  just  laughed  at  it.  But  I  guess 
somethin'  must  have  gone  wrong  the  night  before  I 
pulled  out  for  here.  I  was  kinder  lit  up  that  night, 
havin'  a  few  drinks  with  the  fellers,  so  I  don't  know 
what  it  was;  but  early  in  the  mornin'  Billy  comes  to 
my  room  an'  says  he'll  go.  He  says  he'll  meet  me 
on  the  train  goin'  down  to  Latchford,  where  I've 
got  my  outfit  in  a  canoe  to  come  up  the  river." 

"Kinder  funny,  wasn't  it,  Red?  He  didn't  touch 
Big  Jake  for  nothin',  did  he?" 

"Say,  Peloo,  I  thought  you'd  seen  enough  of  men 
in  your  time  to  know  a  bear  from  a  groundhog." 

Peloo  shifted  uneasily  in  his  chair,  feeling  the 
shame  of  Red's  reproach,  and  added  apologetically, 
"Billy  don't  look  like  a  crook.  I  guess  he's  on  the 
level,  right  'nough." 

"He  was  jus'  scared  that  mornin',  scared  of  some- 


236  RED  MEEKINS 

thin'  or  somebody;  but  when  anybody's  got  a  claim 
that  Billy's  done  him  up  he  can  have  half  the  Big 
Pine  from  me,  an'  it's  lookin'  purty  promisin'  at 
that,"  Meekins  declared  sturdily. 

"I  ain't  findin'  no  fault  with  him,  Red,  an'  all  the 
fellers  is  down  to  the  las'  plunk  on  Billy.  When  they 
get  a  bit  fresh  all  he's  got  to  do  is  go  among  'em 
with  that  little  grin  of  his  an'  say,  'Boys,  don't  be 
too  noisy,  please.'  Danged  if  there  ain't  somethin' 
in  that  soft  voice  that  kinder  acts  like  a  poultice !" 

"That's  jus'  what  got  onto  me,  Peloo — that 
danged  voice  of  his.  Do  you  know  what  I  figger 
it  like?" 

"No." 

"Onct  I  went  to  a  circus.  There  was  a  girl  in  the 
lion's  cage,  an'  when  she  talked  to  them  cranky 
cusses  jus'  like  that  they'd  quit  every  time." 

"But  sometimes  a  mean  cuss  of  a  lion  gets  rusty 
an'  the  girl  can't  do  nothin'  with  him." 

"I've  heerd  that  too." 

"Well,  d'you  see  that  galoot  with  the  black  mous- 
tache?" Peloo  indicated  with  a  move  of  his  thumb 
the  man  who  was  talking  to  Forbes. 

"Looks  like  a  card  sharp,"  Red  declared  after 
a  minute's  inspection. 

"Well,  that's  him,"  Peloo  growled. 

"What  him  was  you  alludin'  to,  Peloo?" 

"Why,  the  mean  cuss  in  the  cage  of  lions." 

"Why  don't  you  fire  him?  You  never  was  stuck 
on  the  serciety  of  anybody  you  didn't  like,  Peloo." 


BILLY  237 

"If  it  wasn't  for  Billy,  I'd  bounce  him  in  a  holy 
minute." 

"Guess  you'll  have  to  deal  some  more  talk,  Peloo, 
afore  I  can  ketch  on." 

"Well,  this  feller — Dick  Hanson  is  his  name — he 
comes  here  about  two  weeks  ago,  an'  Billy  knowed 
him,  leastwise  he  knowed  Billy,  'cause  I  kinder 
think  Billy'd  like  to've  got  out  of  it.  My  idee  is 
that  he  stands  in  with  'em  two  I-talians  that's 
runnin'  the  blind  pig  up  on  the  hill.  Since  he  come 
there's  been  whisky  in  the  house  more'n  onct,  an' 
that'll  kill  me  off  deader'n  a  door  nail." 

"About  the  license,  Peloo?" 

"Yes.  I  got  some  friends  at  headquarters  workin' 
to  get  a  license  here ;  but  if  it  gets  talked  about  that 
there's  liquor  in  the  house  an'  no  license,  I  jus'  don't 
get  it,  that's  all." 

"Did  you  speak  to  Billy  about  him?" 

"Yes,  sure  I  did.  But,  say,  there's  somethin' 
wrong.  If  you'd  seen  the  look  that  came  in  Billy's 
eyes  when  I  wanted  to  have  that  crook  run  out  of 
town — it  was  jus'  as  if  I'd  sprung  a  ghost  on  him." 

"Well,  I'll  gamble  Billy  never  done  nothin' 
crooked  in  his  life.  He's  all  wool  an'  a  yard  wide, 
you  can  stake  your  life  on  that,  Peloo.  Them  eyes 
is  his  sworn  testimony  to  that  fact." 

"What  does  Billy  give  him  money  for,  Red? 
Billy's  keepin'  him." 

"Didn't  you  never  lend  a  pal  money,  Peloo?" 

"  'Tain't  the  same,  nohow;  I  jus'  staked  a  feller 
that  I  liked.  An'  Billy  don't  cotton  to  this  feller; 


238  RED  MEEKINS 

he's  jus'  feared  of  him.  I  been  takin'  stock  when 
they  wasn't  lookin'." 

"I  reckon  the  proper  thing  to  do  under  the  cir- 
cumstance," Meekins  said  thoughtfully,  tousling  his 
mop  of  red  hair,  "would  be  to  snake  this  deadbeat 
some  dark  night  an'  send  him  scootin'  down  the 
river  in  a  canoe  with  strict  orders  to  keep  goin'." 

"Can't  be  did.  This  camp  ain't  no  good."  Peloo 
gasped,  realizing  he  had  expressed  an  adverse 
opinion  of  Silver  City.  He  hastened  to  explain, 
"I  mean  as  to  governin'  a  place.  We  ain't  got  law 
enough,  an'  we  got  too  much.  If  we  had  the  right 
kind  of  law  here  we  could  jus'  send  this  feller  out 
as  a  vag,  an'  if  Hank  Speers  hadn't  been  sent  here 
as  a  no  good  constable,  me  an'  you  an'  a  few  of  the 
fellers  could  jus'  give  that  sponge  his  choice  between 
leavin'  an'  climbin'  a  tree  without  touchin'  the 
trunk." 

"Well,  as  for  me,"  Red  growled,  "if  Billy's 
gettin'  the  worst  of  it,  I'll  take  the  law  inter  my 
own  hands  an'  wallop  seven  kinds  of  daylight  out 
of  that  cowbird." 

"We  jus'  got  to  wait  an'  stand  for  it  awhile," 
Peloo  said  with  a  sigh  of  resignation.  "I've  seen 
fellers  like  that  sorter  get  runnin'  loose  in  a  minin' 
camp,  an'  stumble  up  ag'in'  a  sickness  that  carried 
'em  off.  You  see,  long's  he  pays  his  board  an'  don't 
break  nothin',  I  kinder  can't  turn  him  out.  I've 
been  readin'  up  a  lawbook  on  the  subjec'.  If  I  have 
any  kind  of  a  rumpus  in  the  hotel,  I'll  lose  a  chance 
of  gettin'  that  license,  don't  you  see,  Red?" 


BILLY  239 

Red  adjusted  his  leather  coat  by  the  lapels  with  a 
decisive  jerk,  indicating  that  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  something,  before  he  said,  "You  jus'  leave 
that  fish  to  me,  Peloo.  I'll  get  onto  his  game." 

"What's  the  idee,  Red?"  Peloo  queried. 

But  Meekins  only  nodded  his  head  sagaciously 
and  drew  himself  out  of  the  chair,  saying,  "Guess 
I'll  hike  off  home  to  the  Big  Pine." 

As  the  days  passed,  with  Peloo  sitting  tight  on  the 
situation,  it  was  evident  to  others  that  the  presence 
of  Dick  Hanson  was  a  menace  to  Billy's  peace. 
The  genial  smile  that  had  won  all  their  hearts  flitted 
feebly  across  his  lips  and  only  at  rare  intervals. 
Many  scowling  looks  followed  Hanson  as  he  walked 
about  idly,  making  a  pretense  of  looking  for  a  claim 
to  buy. 

There  was  an  illicit  whisky  place  up  on  the  hill; 
but  it  would  have  been  counted  an  act  of  treachery 
to  denounce  the  blind  pig.  The  miners  considered 
the  Government  regulation  against  the  sale  of  liquor 
in  a  mining  camp  an  act  of  tyranny,  sneering  at  the 
assertion  that  dynamite  'and  whisky  made  an  unsafe 
combination.  They  were  men  who  could  toy  with 
liquor  or  dynamite,  not  babes  to  sup  at  a  Govern- 
ment milk  bottle.  And  it  was  generally  believed 
that  Hanson  was  associated  with  the  two  Italians 
who  ran  the  blind  pig. 

Strangely  enough,  as  it  appeared  to  Meekins's 
friends,  he  was  often  observed  in  Hanson's  com- 
pany. When  Peloo  questioned  him  about  this  Red 
drew  his  shaggy  eyebrows  down  and  assumed  an  air 


240  RED  MEEKINS 

of  deep  mystery.  Importuned  once,  he  replied  al- 
most savagely, 

"You  jus'  wait!  Guess  I  know  what  I'm  doin' ! 
I  uster  be  a  fire  ranger  for  the  Gov'ment,  an'  I  never 
caught  nobody  by  runnin'  after  'em  yellin'  I  was  an 
off'cer." 

There  was  no  doubt  that  Meekins  had  some  crude 
idea  of  ingratiating  himself  into  Hanson's  confi- 
dence in  the  hope  of  obtaining  sufficient  evidence  to 
remove  him  from  Billy's  path.  He  might  have 
succeeded — that  is,  in  a  different  manner  from 
which  his  success  came — if  it  had  not  been  for  the 
blight  of  liquor  that  had  been  on  him  for  years. 
He  could  go  months  without  it,  and  then  inebria- 
tion would  smite  him  as  hay  fever  or  periodical 
malaria  lays  other  men  by  the  heels. 

Perhaps  the  wily  Hanson,  more  subtle  than 
Meekins,  had  divined  the  latter's  weakness;  at  any 
rate  Peloo  was  horrified  to  see  Red  come  into  his 
place  one  evening  hilariously  jocund. 

"Where  did  you  get  it,  Red,  in  the  name  of 
heaven?"  he  queried,  dragging  Meekins  to  his  own 
room. 

But  Red  was  like  an  Indian,  considering  it  a  rank 
act  of  treachery  to  disclose  the  source  of  illicit 
liquor.  Peloo  begged  Meekins  to  tell  him  whether 
it  was  some  of  the  incoming  miners  had  brought  it, 
or  if  the  blind  pig  had  furnished  it. 

Under  the  questioning  Red,  usually  placid  of  tem- 
per, flew  into  a  rage  and  flung  from  the  hotel, 


BILLY  241 

cursing  Peloo  for  a  leather  headed  priest  of  water 
blooded  bigots. 

Billy  was  in  despair;  for  he  had  grown  fond  of 
Meekins.  "He  got  it  at  the  blind  pig,  Mr.  Trout," 
Billy  assured  Peloo.  "Don't  ask  me  about  it;  I 
can't  tell  you.  Why  doesn't  the  constable  close  that 
place  up?" 

"Is  it  Dick  Hanson?"  Peloo  asked. 

"I  can't  tell  you,"  Billy  reiterated;  "But  make 
the  constable  go  out  at  once  and  arrest  those  men 
and  send  them  out  of  the  country." 

Peloo  stared  and  clawed  with  huge  fingers  at  his 
shaggy  beard.  There  were  tears  in  the  vehement 
voice  of  the  speaker,  almost  in  the  blue  eyes,  Peloo 
thought,  as  he  turned  away.  He  passed  grimly  out 
to  the  front  room,  tapped  Hank  Speers  on  the  shoul- 
der, and  said,  "Come  outside,  Hank,  I  want  to  see 
you  a  minute." 

"Something's  got  to  be  did,  constable,"  he  con- 
tinued when  they  were  in  the  open.  "You  get  Bill 
Slack,  an'  the  three  of  us'll  go  out  an'  pull  ,that  j'int. 
This  town  ain't  goin'  to  be  put  on  the  bum  by  no 
whisky  runners  that  don't  pay  no  license.  You 
know  where  'tis,  an'  you  get  busy,  or  there's  goin' 
to  be  a  new  p'lice  force  here  1" 

In  half  an  hour  three  men  with  rifles  were  silently 
climbing  in  the  dark  the  path  that  wound  up  the 
poplar  grown  hill  toward  a  little  ravine  where  a 
small  log  shack  nestled  innocently  in  a  copse  of 
stunted  pine.  Where  the  path,  skirting  a  huge 
boulder,  dipped  to  the  ravine,  Peloo  checked 


RED  MEEKINS 

Constable  Speers  with  his  hand  on  the  latter' s  arm, 
and,  speaking  low,  said: 

"We  best  stalk  this  pirate  gang  kinder  quiet  an' 
ketch  'em  in  the  act." 

Speers  put  his  rifle  down  against  the  rock,  slipped 
his  pistol  belt  round  till  the  black  butt  of  a  heavy 
revolver  showed  conveniently  in  front,  and  un- 
hooked a  bullseye  lantern  that  hung  at  his  hip, 
saying,  "I  know  them  thieves'  game.  Soon's  we 
squeak  they'll  dash  the  glim  an'  try  to  slip  us  in  the 
dark." 

Then  in  Indian  file  the  three  slipped,  with  the 
noiseless  tread  of  men  accustomed  to  woodpaths, 
down  into  the  deeper  gloom  of  the  little  valley. 
From  the  cavelike  blackness  of  the  pines  a  light 
blinked  at  them  evilly,  like  a  red  eye.  Once  Peloo 
whispered : 

"They're  to  home,  right  'nough!" 

They  were  now  among  the  pines,  the  crisp  needles 
beneath  their  feet  giving  forth  whispering  notes  as 
though  they  trod  on  heavy  silk.  Peloo's  rifle  clicked 
as  he  pumped  a  cartridge  from  magazine  to  barrel. 
The  same  clicking  noise  passed  from  Peloo  to  Slack. 
The  heavy  stillness  of  the  pine  boughs  was  like  a 
foreboding  hush,  as  though  the  night  held  its  breath 
in  expectancy.  Once  the  constable  checked,  and 
turning  his  face  whispered  in  Peloo's  ear: 

"One  of  these  cusses  is  a  Greek,  Petri,  an'  he's 
like  a  rattlesnake.  I  know  him.  If  he  draws  a 
weapin  I'm  goin'  to  plug  him." 


BILLY  243 

"We'll  go  kinder  easy  at  the  fu'st  with  'em," 
Peloo  advised  in  whispered  tones. 

As  Speers  moved  forward  again  the  dead  stillness 
was  shattered  by  a  fierce  oath  from  the  shack, 
twenty  yards  in  front.  Other  voices  joined  issue, 
pitched  high  in  anger.  Involuntarily  the  men  stood 
still  in  silent  listening.  "You  skunk,  to  say  that!" 
came  booming  singly  from  the  general  din. 

"That's  Red,"  Peloo  whispered,  leaning  his  chest 
against  the  constable's  shoulder. 

The  heavy  voice  of  Meekins  was  smothered  by 
the  knifelike  tones  of  the  Greek. 

"We  got  to  rush  it!  There's  somethin'  doin' !" 
Peloo  advised. 

As  they  ran  forward  they  heard  the  clatter  of 
chairs,  the  shuffling  rasp  of  feet  that  carried  men  in 
strife. 

Speers,  plunging  forward,  threw  his  weight 
against  the  door.  As  it  smashed  inward  there  was 
the  crash  of  an  overturned  table,  a  sudden  blanket- 
ing of  all  light,  the  clinking  note  of  splintering  lamp 
glass,  and  then  two  darting  tongues  of  crimson  light, 
and  the  rasping  bark  of  a  pistol's  death  voice  twice. 

As  Speers  snapped  the  hood  of  his  lantern  and 
threw  the  blue  barrel  of  his  revolver  forward,  a  man 
slipped  drunkenly  from  the  grasp  of  another  and 
collapsed  like  a  cloth  doll,  to  sprawl  grotesquely  in  a 
huddled  heap  on  the  floor. 

The  constable's  voice  rang  out  sharp  and  im- 
perious, "Hands  up !  The  man  that  makes  a  break 
dies!" 


244  RED  MEEKINS 

Two  rifles  thrust  their  lean  brown  necks  into  the 
room  in  silent  emphasis. 

Red  Meekins  reeled  unsteadily  from  the  centre  of 
the  floor,  and  leaning  against  the  wall  drew  a  heavy 
hand  across  his  eyes  in  a  dazed  way.  He  was  moan- 
ing, "My  God,  fellers !"  He  stared  stupidly  at  the 
figure  on  the  floor  that  had  writhed  over  on  its  back, 
a  little  stream  of  vermilion  red  trickling  from  the 
hanging  jaw.  Just  beyond,  Petri  the  Greek  and  his 
swarthy,  evil  looking  mate  stood  with  uplifted 
hands,  their  vicious  faces  sallow  with  fear. 

"That's  Dick  Hanson!"  Peloo  said  as  he  took  a 
step  forward  and  peered  at  the  figure. 

"Who  shot  this  man?"  Speers  demanded. 

Neither  the  Greek  nor  his  companion  had  any- 
thing to  say. 

"I  didn't,  boys,"  Red  said  in  a  dazed  way.  "I 
ain't  got  no  gun." 

"Here,  Peloo,  keep  these  two  covered  while  I 
handcuff  'em!"  Speers  commanded  sharply. 

Next  instant  steel  bracelets  clicked  on  the  uplifted 
wrists,  and  the  constable  slipped  his  hand  dexter- 
ously round  the  waists  and  forms  of  the  two  men, 
saying,  as  he  brought  forth  a  revolver  and  two  slim, 
glittering  knives.  "I  thought  so.  You  swine'll  get 
what's  comin'  to  you  for  this  I" 

Something  in  this  snapped  the  tension  of  Red's 
nerves.  He  broke  down  and  babbled  like  a  whipped 
child.  Peloo  checked  him  roughly.  His  speech  was 
profane  and  calculated  to  draw  Red's  attention 
from  the  matter  of  his  present  trouble. 


BILLY  245 

"We  got  to  get  this  feller  down  to  the  town's 
quick  we  can,"  Speers  declared.  "Here,  Slack,  yank 
that  camp  bedstead  apart  for  a  stretcher  an'  put 
Hanson  on  it !  Then  you  an'  Peloo  an'  Red  shoul- 
der it  while  I  take  care  of  these." 

As  Peloo  thrust  his  strong  arm  beneath  the 
wounded  man,  lifting  him  toward  the  stretcher,  a 
pistol  clattered  to  the  floor  from  the  nerveless 
fingers.  "He  had  a  gun,  right  'nough,"  Peloo  said, 
thrusting  the  weapon  into  his  pocket.  Then  he 
turned  savagely  on  Meekins,  who  still  clung  weakly 
to  the  wall.  "Take  hold  of  this  stretcher,  Red, 
and  don't  stand  there  starin'  like  a  blasted  ijut!" 

Speers  cut  a  loop  from  a  tracking  line  that  hung 
on  the  wall  and,  tying  it  to  the  handcuff  that  joined 
the  whisky  men  wrist  to  wrist,  said,  "Now,  move 
on,  you  murderin'  thieves !  If  you  make  a  bad 
break  goin'  down-the  trail  consider  yourselves  dead! 
Come  on,  now,  Peloo.  I'll  come  back  in  the  mornin' 
to  seize  this  outfit,"  and  he  kicked  viciously  a  heavy 
wooden  box  from  which  protruded  the'  necks  of 
sealed  bottles. 

Before  him  Speers  drove  his  prisoners,  a  turn 
of  the  stout  cord  about  his  wrist,  and  behind,  with 
no  utterance,  awed  to  silence  by  the  thing  they  car- 
ried, Peloo,  Red,  and  Slack  walked,  their  feet 
finding  the  path  in  the  heavy  gloom.  As  they  neared 
the  hotel  the  constable  checked,  saying : 

"I'll  take  the  cusses  to  my  shack  an'  let  Kinney 
hold  'em  down  with  a  gun.  I'll  be  up  to  the  hotel 


246  RED  MEEKINS 

to  look  into  this,"  and  he  put  his  hand  on  the 
stretcher. 

"We'll  go  in  the  back  way,"  Peloo  said,  uan'  take 
this  poor  cuss  to  his  room.  You  slip  through  the 
front,  Red,  an'  get  Doc  Seton.  Don't  say  nothin' 
to  nobody. 

The  constable  moved  off  with  his  prisoners,  and 
again  the  bearers  of  the  stretcher  went  forward, 
circled  the  sprawling  buildings,  and  through  the 
back  entrance  carried  Hanson  to  his  room. 

As  they  put  the  limp  form  on  a  bed  the  young 
doctor  entered  with  Meekins.  The  three  waited 
in  awed  silence  as  Seton  laboured  over  Hanson's 
inanimate  form,  the  greatest  of  all  verdicts  hanging 
in  the  balance — life  or  death. 

"He  can't  live,"  the  doctor  said  presently, 
straightening  up  with  a  deep  breath.  "He's  shot 
straight  through  the  lungs.  Not  dead  yet;  but  only 
a  question  of  a  few  minutes." 

Peloo  suddenly  sprang  toward  the  door  to  bar 
the  entrance  of  someone  who  had  clutched  its  clat- 
tering hasp;  but  he  was  too  late,  for  the  door  was 
pushed  with  swift  violence  past  his  outstretched 
arm.  Billy,  with  face  drawn  and  white,  entered  and 
stood  for  a  second  staring  wild  eyed  at  the  other 
face  so  ghastly  and  wan  on  the  pillow.  Peloo  put 
his  huge  hand  gently  on  the  intruder's  arm  to  draw 
him  from  the  room;  but  Billy,  with  a  cry  of  agony, 
tore  loose  from  Peloo's  grasp  and,  throwing  him- 
self on  his  knees  beside  the  bed,  clasped  the  dying 
man's  face  in  his  hands,  crying: 


BILLY  247 

"Oh,  my  God!  Dick!  Dick!  Speak!  Don't 
die,  Dick!  It's  Jeanette!" 

Peloo  closed  the  door  and  stood  heavily  against 
its  pine  boards,  his  great  shaggy  head  drooped  till 
the  chin  rested  on  his  chest. 

The  doctor,  putting  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  kneeling  form,  said  softly,  "I'm  afraid  it's  no 

use.  Don't "  He  stopped,  utterly  at  a  loss 

for  words. 

A  dead  hush  fell  upon  the  room;  no  one  spoke. 
Sobs  ticked  off  the  seconds  as  the  sands  ran  out. 
Once  the  doctor  took  a  step  toward  the  kneeling 
one  who  wept,  but  Meekins  drew  him  back.  In 
impotence  they  kept  a  silent  wait.  Then  Death 
must  have  turned  the  empty  glass;  the  sobs  ceased. 

Billy  rose  and,  turning  her  drawn  face  toward 
the  men,  said  brokenly,  "This  man  was  my  husband. 

I  am — am "  Then  her  voice  broke,  choked  by 

sobs. 

Peloo  coughed  and  said,  "I  guess  there's  nothin' 
can  be  did,  doctor?" 

"Nothing,  Mr.  Trout;  not  until  we " 

"If  nothin'  can  be  did,"  Peloo  resumed,  "we  best 
all  go  below  an'  leave  Bil — Mrs.  Hanson  here. 
She's  kinder  shook  up,  I  reckon."  He  turned  to- 
ward Billy.  "Red'll  hang  round  outside  the  door, 
lady,  an'  when  you  want  anythin'  jus'  call." 

Stepping  as  though  they  feared  to  wake  some 
sleeper,  the  men  passed  from  the  room  and  closed 
the  door  gently.  Outside  Peloo  whispered  to 
Meekins: 


248  RED  MEEKINS 

"I'll  be  back  in  a  minute  or  two.  I'm  goin'  down 
to  that  Swede's  shack  to  get  some  women's  clothes." 

Red  drew  forth  a  roll  of  bills  and,  shoving  them 
into  Peloo's  hand,  said,  "There's  'bout  a  hundred 
there.  Buy  the  best  he's  got  for  Billy.  It's  all  my 
fault.  Oh,  if  I'd  knowed  Billy  was  a  woman !" 

"Billy  never  was  a  woman,  Red!"  Peloo's  voice 
was  like  a  snarl.  "Look  here,  fellers,  an'  you,  doc- 
tor! Billy  hit  the  trail  to-night  for  Cobalt,  an' 
Hanson's  wife  she  come  up  the  river  in  a  canoe  a 
follerin'  him.  That's  what  Silver  City's  got  to  know 
in  the  mornin'.  Ain't  that  right,  fellers?" 

"Give  the  Swede  twenty-five  dollars  to  keep  his 
mouth  shut  about  the  clothes,"  Red  added. 

An  hour  later  Meekins  sat  in  Peloo's  room.  "I 
can  ketch  onto  the  whole  thing  now,"  he  said, 
"Billy  bein'  a  woman.  That  skunk,  even  if  he  was 
Billy's  husband,  was  onto  it  that  I  was  trailin'  him 
all  the  time,  an'  he's  doublin'  on  me.  You  see  he 
got  an  idee  I  knew  Billy  was  a  woman,  an'  as  we're 
great  friends,  and  I  liked  Billy,  that  loon  is  jealous. 
I  guess  he  framed  it  up  with  the  Dagos  to  do  me 
by  tellin'  'em  I'm  goin'  to  blow  on  their  blind  pig. 
To-night  we  got  inter  a  argyment,  an'  he  says  I'm 
too  thick  with  Billy.  You  see,  Peloo,  I  don't  know 
Billy's  a  woman,  an'  says  that  me  an'  Billy  is  perty 
hot  pals.  He  sneers  'bout  somethin',  an'  I  asks 
where  he  comes  in,  as  it's  gener'ly  s'posed  he's 
spongin'  on  Billy.  This  makes  him  heat  up  an'  say 
somethin'  not  perlite,  an'  I  swat  him  on  his  laughin' 
box.  I  see  him  draw  a  gun  an'  grabs  him.  Jus'  as 


BILLY  249 

you  fellers  bust  the  door  a  gun  cracks,  an'  I  don't 
know  whether  Petri  tried  to  plug  me  an'  got  Han- 
son, or  Dick  winged  himself  tryin'  to  bore  a  hole 
in  me." 

"You  wasn't  to  blame,  Red,"  Peloo  said  sooth- 
ingly, "an'  that's  all  got  to  be  fixed  up  in  the  court 
trial.  But  here's  Billy " 

"Say,  Peloo,  we  got  to  drop  that  name." 

"I  mean  the  widder,"  Peloo  corrected.  "Here's 
the  widder  got  all  the  worst  of  it.  She's  broke— 
that  snipe  sponged  all  her  wages — an'  she  won't 
want  to  live  unprotected  in  the  hotel,  me  bein'  a 
bachelor.  There's  fellers  jus'  mean  enough  to  talk; 
you  know  that,  Red." 

"We  got  to  stake  her  somehow,"  Meekins  de- 
clared after  a  little  pause.  "Billy — I  mean  the 
widder — is  jus'  the  squarest,  cleanest  feller— -I  mean 
widder — that  I  ever  come  acrost." 

"We  jus'  got  to  do  it,  Red,"  Peloo  agreed. 
"Danged  if  I  know  how  I'm  goin'  to  run  the  Trout 
House  without  Billy." 

"Say,  Peloo "  Red  hesitated  and  looked  at 

Trout. 

"What  is  it?"  the  latter  asked  carelessly. 

"P'r'aps  it  don't  sound  in  keepin'  with  the  sur- 
roundin's,  but  there's  only  me  an'  you  here,  Peloo, 

an'  somethin's  got  to  be  did "  Red  hesitated 

again,  and  Peloo  once  more  affirmed. 

"Yes,  we  got  to  jus'  put  things  right  for  the 
widder." 

"It's  kinder  soon  to  talk  about  it;  but  couldn't  it 


250  RED  MEEKINS 

sorter  be  arranged Why  don't  you  marry  the 

widder,  Peloo?"  Red  fairly  blurted  this  out,  as 
though  half  afraid  of  his  own  utterance.  Then  he 
added  flounderingly,  "It  would  make  the  hotel  re- 
spectable to  have  a  missus  hangin'  about." 

"I  ain't  never  thought  of  gettin'  married,"  Peloo 
answered;  "besides,  as  you  say,  it's  kinder  soon. 
I'll  own  up  to  it  that  I  think  about  as  much  of  the 
widder  as  you  do,  Red,  an'  somethin's  got  to  be 
did;  but  it's  kinder  soon — too  soon.  We  best  have 
the  fun'ral  fu'st." 

"Yes.  I  guess  we  best  give  the  little  woman  a 
hint  not  to  worry  about  money,  an'  bury  that  skate 
that's  brought  all  this  trouble  to  Silver  City." 

The  death  of  Hanson  was  the  first  that  had  oc- 
curred in  Silver  City,  and  no  plot  had  been  set  aside 
as  a  burial  place.  This  contingency  had  been  en- 
tirely overlooked:  now  it  was  thrust  prominently 
before  the  notice  of  the  citizens.  There  was  a  gath- 
ering of  this  body  to  discuss  the  matter.  It  was 
Red  Meekins  who  originated  the  plan  that  was 
finally  adopted. 

Peloo  stated  a  possible  trouble  in  the  future  over 
such  cases.  "If  we  jus'  bury  Hanson  promiscuous 
like,  some  feller's  sure  to  come  along  an'  jump  the 
claim.  S'posin'  a  feller  finds  mineral  close  by,  he'll 
want  to  stake  an'  go  minin',  an'  the  town'll  have  to 
dig  Hanson  up  an'  plant  him  some  other  place." 

"There  ain't  nobody  found  mineral  up  on  Boulder 
Hill  yet,"  Red  offered,  "though  more'n  a  dozen 
fellers  has  prospected  it.  We  best  stake  a  claim 


BILLY  251 

of  twenty  acres  an'  jus'  assign  it  over  to  everybody 
as  dies  in  Silver  City;  then  nobody  can  jump  it. 
How's  that,  men?" 

"Whose  name'll  you  stake  it  in?"  the  constable 
asked.  "You  got  to  have  a  permit." 

Red  scratched  his  head  reflectively.  That  was  a 
puzzler.  It  was  simply  impossible  to  get,  at  present, 
the  names  of  those  who  were  going  to  die  in  the 
future.  "Why  can't  we  stake  it  in  Dick  Hanson's 
name?  He's  the  first,"  he  queried. 

"That  can't  be  did  legally,"  Peloo  declared 
judicially.  "You  can't  stake  in  the  name  of  a  man 
that's  dead,  I  know." 

"I  got  a  permit  for  forty  acres  left,"  Red  de- 
clared presently.  "I'll  stake  twenty  acres  on  that, 
an'  transfer  it  over  to  Billy — I  mean  the  widder." 

"That'll  do  fu'st  rate,"  Peloo  replied.  "She  can 
hold  it  in  trust,  so  to  speak.  Then  she'll  know  that 
nobody  can  never  jump  the  claim  an'  make  the  town 
dig  up  her  husband." 

The  difficult  matter  thus  adjusted  satisfied  every 
one  present;  in  fact,  Meekins  was  congratulated 
upon  the  brilliance  of  his  idea. 

Ordinarily  a  funeral  is  unpicturesque  in  its  dark 
solemnity;  but  the  cortege  that  wound  its  slow  way 
from  the  Trout  House  up  Boulder  Hill  was  strik- 
ingly out  of  the  ordinary.  There  was  not  a  single 
horse  in  Silver  City,  not  a  conveyance  to  be  drawn 
by  a  horse  if  there  had  been  one ;  so  the  body  was 
placed  on  a  rough  prospector's  toboggan,  drawn  by 
six  train  dogs.  The  ground  being  bare,  progress 


252  RED  MEEKINS 

was  more  than  conventionally  slow.  Everybody  in 
Silver  City  followed  this  unusual  hearse;  everybody 
except  Meekins  and  Slack,  who  were  up  in  the  newly 
staked  cemetery  digging  a  long  narrow  chamber  to 
receive  the  body  of  the  man  who  had  created  this 
strong  ripple  of  excitement  in  the  camp. 

When  the  procession  reached  the  place  of  burial 
they  found  Meekins  in  a  condition  of  distress.  He 
had  selected  a  spot  that  promised  a  sufficient  depth 
of  clay;  but  perverse  rock  had  met  his  pick  and 
shovel,  and  the  party  found  him  labouring  with 
perspiring  brow  in  a  trench  barely  two  feet  deep. 

Peloo  took  in  the  situation  with  one  scrutiny. 
"Gen'lemen,"  he  began,  "we  got  to  try  a  fresh  place. 
You  never  can  make  it  without  dynamite!"  He 
turned  with  rough  gentleness  to  Mrs.  Hanson,  add- 
ing, "I  guess,  lady,  you'd  best  go  back  to  the  hotel, 
'cause  we  got  to  dig  again.  It'll  be  jus'  the  same's 
your  bein'  here,  'cause  we'll  see  that  it's  all  correct." 

"There's  a  danged  vein  of  somethin'  hard  here !" 
Red  growled,  as  he  swung  his  pick  viciously  in  re- 
sentment of  his  failure.  The  steel  point  buried 
itself  in  a  mass  of  decomposed  calcite  and  clung 
tenaciously  as  Meekins  wrenched  with  his  powerful 
arms  at  the  handle.  With  a  sudden  loosening  the 
pick  broke  away,  carrying  with  it  a  slab  of  calcite, 
the  snap  of  the  strain  throwing  Red  on  his  back. 
The  mourners  found  it  difficult  to  resist  a  smile  of 
glee  at  Red's  mishap. 

The  latter  scrambled  to  his  feet,  grumbling  at 
the  cussedness  of  rock,  and  stood  eyeing  crossly  the 


BILLY  253 

part  he  had  uncovered.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and 
ran  his  hand  over  the  spot;  then  in  feverish  eager- 
ness with  his  hat  he  brushed  away  the  debris  of 
earth.  "Holy  smoke,  Peloo!"  he  cried  excitedly 
next  instant.  "Here's  a  solid  vein  of  silver  four 
inches  of  it!  It's  a  strike,  I  tell  you!" 

In  his  excitement  Red  had  forgotten,  for  the  in- 
stant, his  solemn  occupation  of  grave  digger:  he 
was  oblivious  to  everything  but  the  delicate  gray 
metal  of  precious  worth  that  spoke  of  riches. 

It  wasn't  in  human  miners'  nature  to  resist  the 
call  of  a  strike,  and,  shameful  to  relate,  the  men 
who  a  minute  before  had  stood  in  dejection  about 
the  shallow  pit  now  hopped  eagerly  into  its  hollow, 
like  boys  scrambling  for  a  handful  of  tossed  pennies. 
Meekins,  as  author  of  this  discovery,  stood  back 
wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  listening 
to  the  enthusiastic  confirmation  of  his  announce- 
ment. He  was  the  first  to  remember  the  somewhat 
sacrilegious  divergence. 

"Gen'lemen,"  he  said,  with  impressive  solemnity, 

"there's  a  lady  present,  and  a "  Red  checked 

his  utterance,  and  coughed  apologetically;  he  had 
been  going  to  say  "a  body."  He  stepped  out  of  the 
trench,  followed  shamefacedly  by  the  others. 

"Things  is  kinder  diff'rent,"  Peloo  said.  "We're 
terrible  sorry,  Mrs.  Hanson,  that  the  depositin'  of 
your  late  husband  is  not  so  agreeable  as  it  should 
orter  be." 

"Oh,  please  do — do I  don't  blame  you.  It 

can't  be  helped;  but " 


254  RED  MEEKINS 

Red  spoke  up  in  relief  to  the  agitated  widow.  "As 
Peloo  said,  lady,  you  best  come  along  with  me  back 
to  the  hotel."  He  turned  to  the  group  of  men. 
"So's  to  prevent  any  misunderstandin'  over  this 
strike  an'  our  neglected  dooty,  this  claim  was  staked 
on  my  permit,  all  legal  an'  accordin'  to  law,  an' 
also  I  guess  I'm  the  man  that  made  the  strike." 

Red  was  interrupted  by  a  bustle  of  discontent,  a 
cough  or  two  from  the  men;  even  Peloo  turned  and 
looked  at  him  half  angrily.  But  he  continued  in  an 
uneventful  voice: 

"What  I  was  goin'  to  say  is,  said  stakin'  was  done 
for  Mrs.  Hanson,  an'  that  goes.  This  claim,  an' 
all  the  silver  therein,  belongs  to  the  lady  as  has  met 
with  so  much  sorrer.  Gen'lemen,  I  jus'  ask  you  to 
agree  to  that  as  witnesses." 

Peloo  held  out  his  big  paw,  saying,  "Shake,  Red!" 
He  was  followed  by  the  others,  each  one  grasping 
Red's  hand  in  solemn  appreciation. 

"The  transfer  papers'll  all  be  made  out  proper 
an'  accordin'  to  law,  an'  the  claim'll  be  recorded  in 
due  course,"  Red  added  with  a  great  burst  of  tech- 
nical expression. 

The  widow,  overcome  by  the  strain  of  waiting 
and  this  sudden  alleviating  good  fortune^  burst  into 
tears.  Peloo  nodded  to  Red  and  then  down  the  hill, 
and  Meekins,  going  awkwardly  up  to  Mrs.  Hanson 
said  with  rough  tenderness : 

"I  guess  we'd  best  get  back  to  the  hotel.  You're 
mighty  tired." 

The  group  of  men  watched  the  two  go  slowly 


BILLY  255 

down  the  hill  on  the  little  trail,  and  presently  Peloo 
spoke.  "Well,  fellers,  we  got  to  finish  this  job. 
Red's — well,  Red  was  always  square;  this  don't 
count  nothin'.  An'  as  for  the  husband  here,  I  guess 
it's  about  the  fu'st  an'  las'  time  that  he  ever  done 
that  little  lady  a  good  turn." 


VI 
FOR  SAVING  LIFE 

THE  front  door  of  Trout's  Hotel  stood  assailed 
by  turmoil.  Without,  the  wind  carried  the  wail 
of  hard  driven  snow  and  fretted  the  iron  hasp  until 
it  clattered  like  an  irritated  castanet;  within,  Black 
Angus  and  Toady  Downs  frisked  in  a  jocund  scrim- 
mage with  Blair  of  New  York. 

Blair  had  brought  the  essence  of  hilarity  with 
him,  Peloo  Trout  knew;  for  his  little  bar  in  one  end 
of  the  room  was  only  a  blueprint  of  what  a  bar 
should  be,  the  shelves  supporting  only  the  most  in- 
nocuous kind  of  fluid. 

"That's  what  I  get!"  Peloo  remarked  dejectedly 
to  Bill  Slack.  "Them  fellers  buys  their  liquor  some 
other  place,  an'  come  here  to  get  drunk.  The  other 
man  makes  the  profit  on  their  booze,  an'  all  I  get  is 
their  fool  hossplay.  I  won't  get  no  license  till  we 
put  in  another  Gov'ment." 

"It's  a  danged  awful  night!"  Slack  said,  with 
a  shiver  of  his  shoulders.  "I  pity  any  poor  cuss  that's 
on  the  trail." 

The  front  door  swung  open  viciously,  as  though 
driven  by  the  unseen  hand  of  the  storm  which  now 
sent  a  sworling  blast  of  snow  through  the  open  gap. 

256 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  257 

"Blast  that  door,  anyway!"  Peloo  growled,  ris- 
ing. "I  got  a  new  ketch  to  it." 

He  stood  for  a  second  peering  at  the  storm's 
ghost  dance;  then  with  an  exclamation  he  disap- 
peared, only  to  thrust  his  shaggy  head  back  into 
the  room  and  say,  "Give  us  a  hand,  Slack.  There's 
another  galoot  here  loaded  for  bear.  Where  in 
thunder  all  this  booze  is  come  from  beats  me!" 
The  significant  tone  of  reproach  in  Peloo's  voice 
was  intended  for  the  roisterers. 

There  was  a  toboggan  just  beyond  the  one  step, 
and  across  it  sprawled  a  man  who  had  evidently 
fallen  backward  from  the  door  as  he  pushed  it  open. 

"Take  holt!"  Peloo  ordered  curtly. 

"Hanged  if  there  ain't  two  of  'em!"  Slack  ejacu- 
lated as  they  lifted  the  fallen  one  to  his  feet,  dis- 
closing a  second  figure  buried  beneath  a  mound  of 
blankets  in  the  sled. 

"Let's  run  this  boozer  in  fu'st!"  Peloo  com- 
manded. 

Their  en  masse  entrance  appealed  to  Black 
Angus.  "That's  the  way  to  run  a  hotel,  Peloo,"  he 
declared.  "Always  carry  the  drunks  in — they 
gener'ly  throw  'em  out." 

"Dreadful  state  of  inebriation,"  Blair  of  New 
York  declared  reproachfully. 

Then  they  all  laughed. 

"He  ain't  got  much  start,  I  guess,"  Peloo  parried 
dryly.  "You  fellers'll  soon  ketch  up." 

At  that  instant  Slack  gave  a  cry  of  discovery. 
"By  hoky!  Peloo,  it's  Red  Meekins!" 


258  RED  MEEKINS 

"Then  he  is  drunk,  if  it's  Red,"  Black  Angus 
offered. 

"He's  froze,  boys,"  Peloo  declared,  putting  his 
nose  to  Red's  breath.  "No  liquor  there — he's  jus' 
plumb  starved  with  the  cold.  Here,  you  men,  quit 
your  foolin' !  There's  another  out  in  the  sled. 
Bring  him  in!  We  got  to  thaw  Red  out  purty 
quick." 

"Here's  something,  boss,"  the  New  Yorker  said, 
passing  Peloo  a  flask, 

"Lug  him  up  to  the  stove,"  Black  Angus  advised. 

"An'  see  his  fingers  drop  off  to-morrer  if  they're 
froze !"  Peloo  sneered. 

He  slipped  Meekins  into  a  chair,  allowed  some 
whisky  to  trickle  down  his  throat,  and  watched  its 
effect.  Red  gasped;  then  he  coughed  and  stretched 
his  arms  wearily.  His  eyes  opened  and  he  looked  at 
Peloo  and  the  others  wonderingly. 

"You're  all  right,  Red,"  Peloo  said  reassuringly; 
"but  you'd  a  froze  stiff  as  the  North  Pole  if  we 
hadn't  found  you." 

Meekins  answered  something;  but  his  voice, 
hoarse  through  weakness,  was  drowned  by  a  scuffling 
rasp  of  feet  as  Slack  and  Toady  entered  carrying  the 
other  salvaged  one.  They  placed  him  in  a  chair, 
where  he  sat  blinking  vaguely  out  of  dulled  eyes. 

"Danged  if  I  know  him !  But  he  ain't  soused 
neither,"  Peloo  declared  as  he  eyed  the  second  man. 

"I  best  take  off  your  mitts,  mister,"  Slack  said. 

As  he  grasped  a  hand  the  man  gave  a  cry  of  pain. 

"Froze!"  Slack  commented,  adding,  as  he  per- 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  259 

sisted,  "I'll  take  'em  off  easy.    They  got  to  come!" 

As  he  gently  drew  the  woolen  mitten  from  a  hand 
as  useless  and  devoid  of  power  as  a  doll's,  it  fell 
idly  into  the  man's  lap,  a  thing  of  swollen  blackness. 

"My  God,  men  !    This  feller's  got " 

Slack's  cry  of  horror  was  cut  by  Red's  voice,  say- 
ing, "Moody  got  a  frostbite  comin'  in.  Wisht  you'd 
put  him  in  a  bunk,  Peloo." 

Peloo  bent  his  big  shoulders  to  the  level  of 
Moody's  sallow  face  and  asked  quietly,  "Are  you 
sick,  stranger?  Feelin'  purty  bad?" 

Thick  parched  lips  set  in  the  coffee  coloured  face 
muttered  something.  Peloo  felt  Slack  touch  him  on 
the  arm,  and  as  he  raised  his  head  the  latter  whis- 
pered in  his  ear.  Peloo's  swarthy  face  blanched. 
He  drew  back,  and  Slack,  holding  up  his  left  hand, 
said  in  a  low  voice : 

"Red's  lyin'  to  us  about  it  bein'  frostbite.  It's 
scurvy !  I  never'll  forget  the  trademark,  'cause  I 
been  there." 

"What's  the  matter,  Peloo?  Why  don't  you  give 
Moody  a  bunk  an'  get  Doc  Seton  to  fix  upr  his  froze 
fingers?"  It  was  Red's  voice,  weak  and  querulous. 
He  had  pushed  in  between  Slack  and  Trout. 

"I  ain't  got  a  single  room  left,  Red.  Business  is 
hummin'  an'  the  hotel  is  plumb  chock  full,"  Trout 
answered. 

"You  haven't  a  room!"  Blair  of  New  York  in- 
terrupted. "If  that  guy  is  soused,  let  him  sleep 
on  the  floor;  but  if  he's  sick,  you  can  have  my 
room." 


260  RED  MEEKINS 

Peloo  looked  admiringly  at  the  speaker.  "That's 
purty  han'some  of  you,  Mr.  Blair,"  he  said,  "an'  if 
I  called  you  down  when  you  was  enjoyin'  yourselves 
I  guess  it  don't  go  no  more.  We'll  jus'  take  this 
poor  cuss  up  to  Mr.  Blair's  room,  Slack,  an'  when 
Doc  Seton  comes  in — he's  gone  out  to  sew  together 
a  man  that's  monkeyed  with  some  dynamite — we'll 
get  him  to  work  on  this  case." 

Meekins  put  his  hand  on  Moody's  shoulder,  say- 
ing, "The  fellers'll  put  you  to  bed,  an'  Doc  Seton'll 
be  here  in  a  minute  to  fix  you  up.  You're  all  right 
now,  Jack.  We  did  purty  good  to  make  Peloo's 
instead  of  Heaven."  Red  added  to  Peloo,  "I  guess 
I  can  go  up  with  Jack.  I  ain't  eat  nothin'  for  two 
days,  an' " 

"I'll  help  with  the  sick  man,"  Blair  offered.  "You 
get  one  of  those  rubber  tired  steaks  cremated,  Mr. 
Trout " 

"Say,  young  man "  Peloo's  angry  retort  was 

cut  by  a  sudden  memory  of  Blair's  gift  of  the  room. 
He  turned  to  Red  instead,  and  said  with  heavy 
sarcasm,  "If  you'll  step  inter  the  dinin'  room,  Mr. 
Meekins,  I'll  pervide  the  bes'  meal  of  victuals  to 
be  had  north  of  New  York.  An'  you  won't  get 
poisoned  with  bad  oysters,  same  as  I  did  in  New 
York  time  I  sold  the  Beaver  Dam  mine." 

When  Peloo  emerged  from  the  dining  room 
again  Slack,  Black  Angus,  and  Blair  were  seated 
about  a  box  stove  loaded  to  the  muzzle  with  birch, 
which  snarled  and  snapped  as  though  miniature 
demons  were  holding  a  riotous  revelry  within. 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  261 

"Doc  Seton  come  in  jus'  now,  an'  I  sent  him  along 
up,"  Slack  advised. 

"I  guess  Red  ain't  eat  none  for  more'n  two  days, 
an'  mighty  little  for  a  long  time  before  that,"  Peloo 
said  with  a  dry  cackle. 

"He  must  have  had  an  awful  trip.  I'd  like  to 
hear  his  story,"  Blair  observed. 

"Guess  you'll  have  to  take  it  out  in  likin',"  Peloo 
retorted.  "Red  don't  talk  much  about  himself  'less 
he's  boozed — then  he's  the  feller  that  licked  John 
L.  Sullivan  wunst,  accordin'  to  his  own  tale." 

A  little  hush  fell  over  the  group  as  Meekins  en- 
tered. Blair  looked  curiously  at  the  man  who  had 
been  thrown  up  at  their  door  by  the  blizzard  night 
and  had  fallen  there,  close  to  the  edge  of  death. 
Peloo's  hint  about  the  loosening  effect  of  liquor 
upon  Red  lingered  in  Blair's  mind,  and  he  tendered 
his  flask,  saying: 

"Have  a  nip,  mister.  You  deserve  all  that's 
going." 

Peloo,  who  knew  the  slow,  suspicious  trend  of 
Red's  mind  when  he  was  being  drawn  to  talk,  began 
far  afield.  "Did  you  find  that  gold,  Red,  that 
Tommy  Kazoo  had  all  figgered  out  he  could  put 
his  thumb  onto?" 

A  mirthless  laugh  issued  from  Meekins's  swollen 
lips.  "I  guess  that  halfbreed  had  a  dream,  Peloo; 
leastwise  I  didn't  find  nothin'." 

"Have  a  cigar,  mister,"  Blair  offered,  passing  his 
case  across  the  stove. 

Meekins     shook     his     head     dolefully,     saying, 


262  RED  MEEKINS 

"Thank  you  kindly;  but  I  guess  my  lips  is  too  swelled 
up  with  the  cold  to  hang  onto  a  weed. 

"Try  another  nip,"  Blair  persisted,  hungering  for 
Red's  story. 

Meekins  turned  his  eyes  on  Peloo.  Their  implor- 
ing look  caused  the  latter  to  say: 

"I  guess  you  deserve  it,  Red;  it'll  kinder  thaw 
you  out."  Peloo  was  meaning  loquaciously;  but 
Meekins  after  a  hearty  draft  ejaculated: 

"That  goes  right  to  the  spot.  I  can  wiggle  my 
toes  now." 

"An'  you  didn't  find  no  gold?"  Peloo  suggested. 
"How  was  it  you  happened  to  be  hooked  up  with 
Moody?" 

"He  was  keepin'  a  Gov'ment  cache  up  ter  Moose 
Crossin'.  His  father's  one  of  the  Gov'ment  big 
guns." 

"If  Moody's  father  is  like  the  Gov'ment,  he  ain't 
no  good!"  Peloo  snarled. 

"You  ain't  got  your  license  yet,  eh,  Peloo?"  Red 
queried  innocently. 

"I  ain't;  but  I  wasn't  thinkin'  of  that.  There's 
other  things  this  north  country  is  gettin'  all  the 
wu'st  of  it  over." 

"How  did  Moody  get  scurvy?"  Blair  asked  the 
question  abruptly. 

Red  scowled.  There  was  something  disagreeable 
in  the  other's  harsh  wording  of  the  dread  disease. 
"There  ain't  no  gold  up  there,  Peloo,"  he  said  ir- 
relevantly, in  reproach  to  the  other's  inquisitive- 
ness. 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  263 

"Gold  in  this  country,"  Slack  remarked  senten- 
tiously,  "is  jus'  kidneys  in  the  rock;  fatter'n  a  ham 
for  jus'  a  mouthful,  an'  then  peters  out  same's  some- 
body had  stole  it." 

"Where's  Tommy  Kazoo  an'  the  dogs?"  Peloo 
asked. 

"The  dogs  is  dead.  Wisht  I  could  say  the  same 
about  Kazoo!"  Red  snarled.  Then  he  lapsed  into 
an  aggravating  silence. 

Peloo  could  read  his  own  whetted  interest  re- 
flected in  the  faces  of  the  others.  There  was 
sarcasm  in  his  voice  as  he  said,  ostensibly  addressing 
Blair,  "Red's  goin'  to  write  a  novel  some  day. 
Guess  he's  savin'  up  this  story  'bout  how  he  had  to 
eat  up  his  dogs." 

It  was  Peloo's  solemn  manner  perhaps  more  than 
his  words  that  caused  Blair  to  laugh  so  heartily  that 
Red,  angered,  snapped,  "I  didn't  say  I  eat  my 
dogs!" 

Blair  tendered  an  intrinsic  apology.  "Have  an- 
other nip,  Mr.  Meekins?"  he  suggested.^, 

As  Red  complied,  Peloo  leaned  toward  Blair  and 
stage-whispered,  "Red's  terrible  bashful.  He's 
afeared  we'd  think  he  was  blowin'  if  he  told  how  he 
sledded  that  poor  sick  cuss  all  the  way  from  Moose 
Crossin' — that's  about  two  hundred  miles." 

"It's  only  a  hundred  an'  eighty,"  Meekins  cor- 
rected. 

"How  d'you  come  to  go  to  Moose  Crossin'  ?  You 
was  on  Black  River,"  Peloo  queried,  with  a  wink  at 
Blair,  as  much  as  to  say,  "Now  we're  off  1" 


264  RED  MEEKINS 

The  last  drink  had  evidently  overcome  Red's  re- 
pugnance to  speak  of  his  own  deeds,  and  he  fell  into 
the  trap.  "I  knocked  about  with  that  fool  breed, 
Tommy  Kazoo,  huntin'  that  yeller  mountain  he 
talked  about,  till  my  grub  got  low.  Some  Indians 
told  me  the  Gov'ment  had  a  cache  of  grub  at  Moose 
Crossin'  for  the  survey  parties  that  was  out  runnin' 
railroad  lines." 

"A  man  might  as  well  meet  a  flock  of  sandhill 
cranes  as  Indians — they  ain't  never  got  no  grub," 
Peloo  interposed. 

"They  agreed  to  feed  Tommy  till  I  got  back  with 
grub,"  Red  continued;  "so  I  lit  out  for  Moose 
Crossin'  with  my  dogs.  That  took  two  days,  an' 

when  I  got  there Say,  boys,  it  was  tough  I 

Moody  is  in  bed " 

"I  know,"  interjected  Slack.  "I  been  hooked  up 
with  scurvy.  His  sand  was  all  leaked  out.  He  jus' 
quit  an'  wanted  to  die,  didn't  he,  Red?" 

"Purty  near.  He  was  eatin'  raw  pork  an' 
drinkin'  beer.  His  mate  had  gone  off  two  weeks 
before  to  get  medicine,  an'  Moody  allowed  that 
mos'  like  he  was  on  a  big  drunk  somewhere,  'cause 
he  was  that  kind." 

"Didn't  they  have  any  potatoes?"  Peloo  asked. 
"Raw  potatoes  would've  cured  him  better'n  any 
medicine." 

"Or  lime  juice,"  Blair  offered. 

"I  guess  there  ain't  no  limes  growin'  up  in  that 
country,"  Red  retorted,  "an'  as  for  potatoes,  Peloo, 
they  let  'em  get  froze.  I  see  some  tenderfeet  in 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  265 

my  time;  but  Moody  an'  the  feller  that  had  been 
with  him  was  artists  in  that  line.  They'd  never 
done  nothin'  but  book  learnin'  an'  football  an' 
things,  an'  I  guess  they'd  been  shipped  up  to  Moose 
Crossin'  to  separate  'em  from  booze  for  a  time. 
Anyway,  Moody  didn't  know  what  was  ailin'  him. 
His  legs  was  as  black  as  my  hat,  an'  is  still.  When 
I  told  him  he'd  got  to  get  out  along  with  me  he 
blubbered  like  a  kid;  said  he  was  too  sick.  He  took 
a  potshot  at  me  with  a  gun  he  had  under  his  pillar 
when  I  went  to  yank  him  out  of  bed  to  get  ready. 
My  dogs  is  kinder  used  up  with  hard  goin';  but  I 
see  I  got  to  get  that  kid  to  a  doctor  purty  quick,  so 
I  pulls  out  for  here  next  mornin',  thinkin'  I  can  make 
it  in  ten  days  at  most,  an'  havin'  his  weight  in  the 
sled  I  don't  take  none  too  much  grub." 

"It's  been  forty  below  here  most  the  time,"  Peloo 
slipped  in. 

"Yes,  it  were  fifty  the  day  I  pulled  out,  an'  I  driv', 
driv'  at  the  dogs  for  fear  the  January  thaw  might 
come  after  that  snap.  In  two  days  we  make  sixty 
miles.  Slow  goin'  that;  but  the  snow  is  deep.  Then 
she  melts  on  the  third,  an'  freezes  up  tight  that 
night.  That  left  a  crust  on  the  snow — jus'  enough 
for  the  dogs  to  go  through  an'  cut  their  feet  same 
as  they  was  walkin'  on  broken  glass.  I'm  goin' 
through  half  the  time,  'cause  my  snowshoes  ain't  none 
too  big.  Say,  them  dogs  jus'  cried,  an'  when  they 
wasn't  whinin'  Moody  was  blubberin' ;  wanted  to 
know  why  I  couldn't  let  him  die  comf'table  up  at  the 
shack — not  bring  him  out  there  to  freeze  to  death." 


266  RED  MEEKINS 

"A  pleasant  trip  you  had!"  Blair  commented, 
simply  as  a  valve  for  escape  of  tension. 

"It  was  kinder  tough,"  Red  admitted.  "I  ain't 
stuck  on  husky  dogs  none  too  much  as  pets;  but 
I'm  danged  if  it  didn't  hurt  some  to  have  to  shoot 
two  the  fifth  day  out.  But  they'd  a  died  anyway. 
I  couldn't  leave  'em  no  grub,  an'  they  couldn't  go 
on.  In  six  days  the  dogs  was  all  gone.  We  hadn't 
made  more'n  a  hundred  miles  when  the  las'  pegged 
out — an'  he  wasn't  much  good  at  that.  I  was  in 
the  collar  ahead  of  him,  an'  sometimes  I'd  look 
round  an'  find  I  was  pullin'  dog  an'  sled  too." 

"How  long  was  you  comin',  Red?"  Peloo  queried. 

"Eighteen  days." 

"It  was  an  awful  trip,"  Slack  declared. 

"Sometimes,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  fellers,  I'd 
kinder  lose  my  nerve,"  Red  admitted. 

Peloo's  eyes  turned  on  Meekins  sharply,  ques- 
tioning the  truth  of  this  statement.  A  pleased  relief 
crept  into  them  as  Red  added,  after  a  little  pause: 

"I'd  look  at  that  poor  cuss  lyin'  by  the  campfire, 
an'  think  he  was  about  all  in.  I  don't  know  how  I'd 
a  felt  if  I'd  not  landed  him  here — that  after  blowin' 
to  him  so  much  about  gettin'  him  here  sure." 

"You  wasn't  worryin'  none  about  yourself,  Red, 
I  guess,"  Peloo  offered,  so  that  the  man  from  New 
York  might  understand. 

"There  wasn't  nothin'  to  worry  about,  only  bein' 
tired,"  Meekins  answered  simply.  "When  a  feller's 
well  he  can  always  take  care  of  himself,  can't  he  ?  I 
was  that  danged  near  bushed,  though,  toward  the 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  267 

last  that  I  was  feared  I  might  go  right  on  sleepin' 
an'  Moody'd  peg  out  on  me.  I  uster  tie  a  cord 
about  my  hand  an'  make  the  other  end  of  it  fast  to 
his  arm — 'cause  his  fingers  was  no  use — an'  tell 
him  to  yank  the  daylights  out  of  me  if  he  wanted 
me  to  get  up  or  if  it  was  time  to  start.  Grub  was 
gettin'  purty  low  too ;  last  two  days  I  guess  I  kinder 
lived  on  chewin'  tobacker  altogether.  I  made 
Moody  go  on  hospital  treatment — what  I'd  call  tea 
an'  a  promise.  I  knowed  it  was  drinkin'  coffee  an 
eatin'  pork  that  had  scurvied  him,  'cause  fellers  that 
live  in  the  bush  an'  drink  tea  five  times  a  day  never 
get  no  scurvy." 

"Well,  you  saved  his  life,  Meekins,"  Dr.  Seton, 
who  had  joined  the  circle,  declared  emphatically. 
"He'll  pull  through,  perhaps  minus  a  foot;  his  toes 
will  go  sure.  You  ought  to  get  the  medal  for  saving 
life  after  going  through  so  much  for  a  stranger." 

"Guess  the  fellers'd  laugh  if  they  seen  me  with 
a  medal  on  my  chest;  an'  as  for  bringin'  him  out, 
I  was  about  sick  of  winterin'  up  there  anyway. 
Danged  if  I  ain't  glad  I'm  back  here !  Seein'  ole 
Peloo  an'  his  whiskers  is  about  wu'th  that  walk." 

"What  about  the  dogs  you  lost,  Red?  Who's 
goin'  to  pay  you  for  them?"  Trout  asked. 

"The  Government  ought  to  pay  for  the  dogs," 
Dr.  Seton  asserted. 

Peloo  snorted  in  derision.  "When  I  get  a  license 
Red'll  get  his  dog  money,"  he  said.  "Red  ain't  got 
no  more  pull  than  I  got.  If  dogs  had  votes,  then 


268  RED  MEEKINS 

Red  would  have  six  bran'  new  dogs  bought  for  him 
at  wunst." 

"I  guess  I  didn't  think  nothin'  about  gettin'  paid 
for  my  dogs  at  fu'st,"  Meekins  interposed,  "an' 
when  I  see  a  white  man  jus'  peggin'  out  inch  by  inch 
I  guess  I'd  brought  him  in  if  I  knowed  I'd  never 
get  a  cent!" 

"You  trip  is  like  a  story  I  read  last  month  of  two 
men  in  a  blizzard — only  they  went  snow  blind," 
Blair  observed  as  Meekins  ceased  speaking. 

"Them  story  fellers  gener'ly  gets  the  wu'st  of  it," 
Red  said  dryly.  "They  get  cracked  heels,  and 
bunged  eyes,  an'  froze  feet,  an'  have  to  chaw  dog 
harness  for  a  livin',  an'  get  saved  the  las'  minute  by 
a  miracle  so's  they  can  go  into  the  lecture  business. 
But  I  never  come  acrost  much  of  that  tough  luck. 
Of  course  I'm  not  stuck  on  takin'  as  a  steady  job 
pullin'  a  sled  with  a  half  loony  cuss  in  it.  Guess  I'll 
turn  in,  Peloo,  if  I  can  get  a  shakedown,"  Red  de- 
clared after  a  little  pause.  Then  his  eyes  wandered 
humorously  about  the  group,  and  he  added,  "You 
fellers  strung  me  for  a  lot  of  talk,  an'  some  of  it 
don't  go  as  facts." 

As  Meekins  rose  to  follow  Peloo,  who  stood  with 
a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand  waiting,  Blair  held  out 
his  hand,  saying,  "You  can't  kid  me  with  that  bluff. 
You're  a  peacherino  man,  all  right,  and  if  you  ever 
come  to  New  York  we'll  trail  up  the  Great  White 
Way  together  a  few,  I  guess." 

When  Peloo  set  the  candle  on  a  washstand  in  the 
room  he  had  led  Meekins  to,  the  latter  turned  on 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  269 

him  angrily  with,  "Peloo,  you've  give  me  your  bunk! 
Where  you  goin'  to  roost,  eh?" 

"I  got  my  blankets  spread  in  Moody's  room. 
You  don't  think  I'm  goin'  to  let  a  feller  you're  fool 
enough  to  lug  in  here  sick  keep  that  girl  waitin'  on 
him  all  night  so's  she  can't  carry  hash  to  the  board- 
ers to-morrer,  do  you?"  Then  with  an  emphatic 
bang  of  the  door  Peloo  clanked  down  the  bare 
wooden  stairs. 

The  next  day  Moody  was  sent  out  by  sleigh  trail 
to  the  train  at  Charlton  on  his  way  to  a  hospital  at 
Toronto. 

"You've  made  a  strike,  Red,"  Peloo  assured 
Meekins.  "It'll  be  wu'th  thousands  to  you,  savin' 
that  kid.  You'll  get  in  with  'em  big  guns.  You  can 
pick  up  a  claim  here  for  most  nothin'  an'  float  a 
company,  just  by  lettin'  'em  have  a  big  rake-off.  I'll 
help  you  do  it;  for  I  guess  I  got  a  little  more  expe- 
rience at  brokerin'  mines." 

"I'd  like  to  get  paid  for  'em  dogs,  if  it's  all  the 
same  to  the  Gov'ment,"  Red  offered  as  a  more 
practical  prospect. 

"That  ought  to  be  as  easy  as  rollin'  off  a  log," 
Peloo  affirmed;  "that  is,  if  this  Gov'ment  isn't  big- 
ger hogs  than  a  camp  of  halfbreeds.  What  you  got 
to  do  is  make  out  a  bill  for  savin'  Gov'ment  prop- 
erty." 

"Could  you  call  a  man  Gov'ment  property, 
Peloo?" 

"In  makin'  out  a  bill,  of  course.  It's  like  writin1 
for  value  received — same  sort  of  thing.  A  Gov'- 


270  RED  MEEKINS 

ment  don't  care  a  hang  about  a  man  'cause  he's  a 
human  bein' :  it's  jus'  because  he  was  part  of  the 
works  to  put  through  that  railroad — see?" 

"You  write  it  out,  Peloo.  My  fingers  is  that 
danged  stiff  with  the  cold  an'  haulin'  that  sled  I 
guess  I'd  make  a  bad  fist  of  it." 

Peloo  complied  with  alacrity.  He  brought  forth 
paper  which  carried  as  a  letterhead  the  legend, 
"Peloo  Trout  &  Co.,  Mining  Brokers."  Peloo  put 
his  finger  on  this  lettering  and  said  impressively, 
"That'll  give  it  a  kind  of  standiri',  Red.  I'll  write 
it  actin'  as  your  agent.  That'll  make  'em  kinder 
sit  up  an'  take  notice.  Them  dashed  clerks  is  too 
handy  at  turnin'  down  a  man  that  don't  seem  to  have 
connections.  Fu'st  we'd  better  make  out  the  bill. 
What's  the  four  dogs  wu'th?" 

"They  wasn't  much — picked  'em  up;  'bout  five 
dollars  a  tail,  I  guess." 

"Four  dogs,  at  say,  twenty-five  dollars  apiece: 
that's  a  hundred." 

"Say,  Peloo,  d'you  s'pose  any  of  'em  fellers  at 
headquarters  knows  anythin'  about  the  value  of 
train  dogs?" 

"I  guess  they  know  more  about  ortomobiles. 
Hundred  dollars  for  four  dogs,  I've  writ.  Now 
your  time,  Red." 

"Coin'  to  put  that  in  too?  I  wasn't  hired  to 
bring  that  poor  cuss  in;  I  jus'  did  it." 

"Don't  make  no  diff'rence — you  done  it.  You 
was  eighteen  days,  wasn't  you?" 

"Yes." 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE 

"An'  six  days  to  recover  from  the  turrible  ex- 
posure; that  makes  twenty-four  days,  at  ten  dollars 
per  diem — two  hundred  and  forty  dollars  net." 

"But,  say,  Peloo,  they're  sure  to  know  a  man  only 
gets  three  dollars  a  day  up  here." 

"For  blastin'  rock;  but  that  price  don't  go  when 
it  comes  to  savin'  lives  an'  Gov'ment  property. 
What's  the  Gov'ment  for?  Don't  everybody  soak 
'em  when  they  get  a  chanst?" 

"They  won't  pay  it,"  Red  objected,  "not  ten  dol- 
lars a  day." 

"I'm  fixin'  it,"  Peloo  declared  conclusively.  "I'm 
writin'  it  this  way:  'To  hire  of  self  and  a  train  of 
dogs' — that's  wu'th  ten  dollars." 

"But  I  didn't  have  no  dogs  most  of  the  time," 
Meekins  corrected. 

"That's  jus'  it — nor  you  ain't  got  no  dogs  to  go 
back  to  finish  your  perspectin'  for  gold.  I'm  puttin' 
in  two  hundred  dollars  for  loss  of  perspectin'  while 
you  was  away  on  Gov'ment  service." 

Meekins  drew  a  hand  across  his  forehead  and 
there  was  a  bewildered  look  in  his  eyes.  "Guess  I 
can't  keep  up  with  you,  Peloo,  in  that  statement  of 
account;  there's  too  many  figgers.  How  does  she 
stand  now?" 

Trout  made  an  addition,  and  then  answered, 
"Five  hundred  an'  forty  dollars — not  a  danged  cent 
too  much!" 

"Guess  I  best  leave  it  to  you,  Peloo;  but  they'll 
chop  it  down  some,  I  bet." 

"That's  what  I'm  allowin'  for — ten  per  cent,  off 


272  RED  MEEKINS 

for  cash,  so  to  speak.  I'll  write  it  out  in  official 
form'  and  send  her  in  at  wunst." 

For  thirty  days  Peloo  and  Meekins  discussed 
daily  the  probable  outcome  of  their  claim  for  sal- 
vaging Moody.  Then  one  day  Peloo  took  Meekins 
to  his  room,  saying,  "I  guess  your  check  has  arrove, 
Red;  leastwise  this  looks  kinder  suspicious,"  and 
he  held  out  a  long  white  envelope  which  carried  a 
red  official  seal. 

"I  hope  they  ain't  cut  it  more'n  about  half," 
Meekins  said  as  Peloo  opened  the  letter. 

"They  jus'  run  it  through  the  Gov'ment  meat 
chopper,  that's  all  they  did,  Red,"  Peloo  answered 
dryly  as  he  passed  Meekins  a  check. 

"Thirteen  dollars  an'  twenty-five  cents!"  the 
latter  read  aloud  in  tones  of  deep  disgust.  "Cussed 
if  I  didn't  eat  up  more'n  that  in  tobacker!  What 
does  Premier  Wilson  say  in  that  letter  about  it?" 

"  'Tain't  from  the  Premier,  Red;  it's  from  some 
danged  understrapper  who  signs  himself  Secretary 
to  the  Dep'ty  Minister  of  the  Department." 

Then  Peloo  proceeded  to  read  the  letter.  The 
secretary  pointed  out  that  the  Government  should 
not  be  held  responsible  for  four  dogs  which  had 
evidently  been  lost  through  the  owner's  carelessness 
after  his  arrival  at  Silver  City,  as  he  had  charged 
for  their  services  up  to  that  time,  eighteen  days 
in  all. 

The  item  of  eighteen  days  in  making  one  hundred 
and  eighty  miles  was  an  overcharge.  With  a  team 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  273 

of  ordinary  dogs  this  distance  should  be  covered  in, 
at  most,  six  days. 

The  item  of  two  hundred  dollars  for  loss  to  Mr. 
Meekins's  business  while  absent  appeared  to  be  a 
claim  without  any  foundation,  as  evidently  said 
Meekins  was  on  his  way  to  Silver  City  when  Mr. 
Moody  engaged  transportation. 

The  secretary  was  further  instructed  to  advise 
that  Mr.  Moody  was  not  authorized  to  engage  Mr. 
Meekins,  and  it  appeared  to  the  D.  M.  that  Mr. 
Meekins  should  obtain  payment  from  Mr.  Moody. 

But  as  this  matter  of  a  Government  employe's 
right  to  take  sick  leave  in  special  cases  without  first 
applying  to  the  head  of  his  department  was  now 
under  consideration,  the  D.  M.  had  passed  an  order 
for  the  payment  to  Mr.  Meekins  of  the  regular 
Government  rate  of  ten  cents  a  mile  for  the  hundred 
and  eighty  miles  he  had  transported  Mr.  Moody, 
less  four  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents,  the  value 
of  food  supplies  he  had  obtained  from  the  Govern- 
ment cache  at  Moose  Crossing.  A  check  for  thir- 
teen dollars  and  twenty-five  cents  was  inclosed.  Mr. 
Meekins  would  please  sign  the  inclosed  vouchers 
in  triplicate. 

"There  you  are,  Red!"  Peloo  exclaimed  ironic- 
ally. "Paid  in  full  for  takin'  a  chanst  of  bein'  froze 
to  death  to  save  a  sucker,  an'  here's  your  diploma!" 
Peloo  tendered  the  check  with  a  Chesterfieldian  air 
to  Meekins. 

Red  gazed  at  the  white  slip  in  silence.  A  flush  of 
humiliation  reddened  his  brow.  The  flimsy  bit  of 


RED  MEEKINS 

paper  seemed  evidence  that  he  had  overrated  this 
service,  had  bragged  about  it,  in  his  demand  for 
recompense. 

"I'm  kinder  sorry  I  sent  in  that  bill,  Peloo,"  he 
said  after  a  time.  "I'd  lose  four  dogs  an'  tramp  a 
bit  through  the  snow  to  save  a  white  man's  life  any 
time.  I  orter've  let  it  go  at  that,  an'  waited  for 
my  turn  to  be  helped." 

"  'Tain't  that  way  at  all,"  Peloo  objected.  "Isn't 
the  Gov'ment  always  givin'  pensions  an'  bonuses  to 
men  that  puts  in  claims?  But  it's  jus'  because  the 
fellers  has  got  a  pull — can  switch  votes.  When  I 
was  up  in  Alberta,  time  the  Kiel  rebellion,  there  was 
a  halfbreed  that  uster  pasture  the  Gov'ment  trans- 
port bosses  at  five  dollars  a  head  per  month.  Along 
comes  the  rebellion,  an'  he  hires  the  bosses  to  the 
Gov'ment  at  five  dollars  a  day  for  each  team.  He 
got  away  with  it  too,  an'  jus'  because  all  the  half- 
breeds  voted  the  way  he  told  'em  to  vote." 

"Purty  slick,"  Red  commented.  "An'  if  it  comes 
to  the  matter  of  a  mine  deal  I  guess  I'd  look  out  for 
myself  too;  but  this  is  kinder  diff'rent,  Peloo!  I 
orter  been  satisfied  with  savin'  that  feller's  life  as 
a  saw-off  to  some  wuss  things  I've  did.  I  guess  I'll 
jus'  send  that  check  back  with  my  compliments  to 
Gov'ment." 

Peloo  sat  scowling  at  his  toes,  turning  something 
over  in  his  mind;  then  he  said,  "You  give  me  that 
check,  Red,  an'  I'll  stake  you  to  four  of  the  bes'  train 
dogs  in  the  North." 

"I   don't  want  it,    anyway,"    Red   declared   de- 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  275 

spondently,  as  he  passed  the  check  back  to  Peloo. 
"You  can  give  it  to  some  poor  people,  if  you  like." 

That  evening  when  Meekins  entered  the  hotel 
office  room  his  eyes  fell  on  his  Government  check, 
neatly  framed  in  black,  on  the  wall  behind  the  bar. 
"For  Saving  Life"  was  written  in  red  across  the 
check.  Below  it  was  an  explanatory  note  on  a  sheet 
of  Peloo's  business  paper.  The  first  line  of  this 
literary  endeavour  ran,  "The  value  our  Government 
puts  on  a  man's  life."  Then  followed  a  terse, 
graphic  resume  of  what  Meekins  had  done,  his  loss 
in  time  and  dogs.  And  as  an  envoy  a  sarcastic  line: 
"Vote  for  this  kind  of  a  Government,  men!" 

Rather  troubled,  not  quite  understanding,  Red 
turned  away,  to  find  Peloo  looking  at  him  with  an 
amused  grin  on  his  shaggy  face.  Peloo  nodded  com- 
placently, saying: 

"I  guess  Gov'ment'll  find,  you  have  got  a  pull, 
Red,"  he  indicated  the  sombre  framed  check. 
"There's  going  to  be  an  election  in  the  spring. 
Shouldn't  wonder  if  the  Gov'ment  candiolate'd  want 
to  buy  that  check,  Red." 

From  that  day  on  the  innocent  looking  slip  of 
paper  behind  Peloo's  bar  grew  in  importance.  It 
waxed  into  a  power  that  dwarfed  large  questions 
of  political  economy.  "What  about  Meekins's 
check,"  was  a  question  suddenly  shot  at  a  political 
speaker  sufficient  to  offset  an  hour's  harangue. 

"Meekins  ain't  got  no  pull,  eh?"  Peloo  would 
observe  ironically  from  time  to  time. 

One  night,  two  months  after  the  receipt  of  Red's 


276  RED  MEEKINS 

check,  a  stranger  arrived  at  Trout's  Hotel.  Peloo, 
who  was  behind  the  counter,  noted  with  grim  inter- 
est that  as  the  man  raised  his  eyes  from  signing  the 
register  they  fell  on  the  framed  check  and  lingered 
there  long  enough  to  read  its  attached  history. 

The  guest  asked  quietly,  "Is  this  Mr.  Meekins 
in  Silver  City  now?" 

"That's  him,  an'  he's  one  of  the  mos'  influential 
citizens  of  this  town,"  Peloo  answered,  indicating 
Red,  who  was  sitting  by  the  stove. 

As  Peloo  turned  the  register  he  gave  a  gasp  and 
looked  at  the  check  behind  him.  It  carried  the  same 
signature  as  that  written  in  the  book,  "Peter 
Moody." 

Moody  had  crossed  over  to  Red.  He  held  out 
his  hand,  saying,  "I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude 
sir,  for  saving  my  son's  life.  I  am  Mr.  Moody." 

"Oh,  I  jus'  happened  along,"  Red  replied  in  a 
deprecating  voice.  "How's  he  doin',  Mr.  Moody? 
Did  he  lose  all  his  toes?" 

"He's  crippled  physically;  but  in  other  ways  he's 
better  than  he  ever  was.  As  you  saved  his  life,  I 
can  hardly  regret  the  experience." 

Moody  drew  from  a  pocket  a  small  leather  case, 
and  added,  "I  brought  with  me  a  little  token  of  my 
gratitude  and  appreciation,  hoping  I  might  find  you 
here."  He  opened  the  case,  lifted  out  a  massive 
gold  watch  and  chain,  and  passed  it  to  Meekins  with 
the  back  of  the  case  open,  saying,  "When  you'va 
read  what  is  inscribed  there  I  hope  you  will  accept 
this  too  meagre  gift  from  me." 


FOR  SAVING  LIFE  277 

On  the  case  of  Meekins  read,  "Presented  to  James 
Meekins  for  his  heroic  conduct  in  saving  the  life  of 
my  son.  PETER  MOODY." 

UI  want  to  speak  of  that  check  on  the  wall," 
Moody  said  presently.  "I  have  been  away  and 
know  nothing  of  that  matter.  The  check  was 
signed  by  my  deputy.  It  was  only  on  my  return  that 
I  had  the  story  from  my  son's  lips." 

Meekins  had  sat  reading  over  and  over  the  in- 
scription in  the  watch.  There  was  a  bur  in  his  voice 
as  he  said,  "Any  of  the  fellers  would' ve  done  all 
that  I  done,  mister;  but  it's  mighty  nice  of  you  to 
give  me  that  watch  an'  what's  writ  in  it.  You  mus' 
tell  your  son  when  you  go  back  I  hope  he's  gettin' 
on  all  right." 

"I'd  like  to  take  that  check  back  to  the  depart- 
ment," Moody  said.  I'd  take  the  matter  up  my- 
self." 

"If  you'll  excuse  me  a  minute,  mister;  I  got  to  say 
a  word  to  Peloo,"  and  Red,  stepping  over  to  the 
counter,  said,  "Jus'  hand  me  down  that  check, 
Peloo." 

Trout  complied,  saying,  "I  knowed  he'd  want  to 
buy  it;  but  don't  take  no  promises — get  the  cash. 
Stick  him  for  all  he'll  stand!" 

Meekins  returned  to  his  seat,  saying,  "I  got 
kinder  tired  seein'  that  thing  up  there." 

Moody  hastily  put  a  hand,  crying,  "Why,  you  are 
tearing  it,  Mr.  Meekins !" 

"Guess  I  am,"  Red  answered  quietly,  "  'cause  me 
an'  you  an'  the  Gov'ment  is  all  quits  now." 


VII 
HILLS  OF  THE  WIND 

A  NEW  organ  in  the  sitting  room  of  Peloo  Trout's 
hotel  indicated  the  full  advancement  of  Silver  City. 

Red  Meekins,  who  had  come  in  from  his  claim, 
the  Big  Pine,  sat  in  a  chair  beside  the  proprietor 
listening  to  the  travail  of  the  organ.  Presently  he 
turned  to  Trout  and  remarked,  "That  Singer  To- 
mato is  a  hummer  at  the  melojun,  Peloo." 

"That's  a  organ,  Red.  'Tain't  one  of  'em  hinky- 
dink  melojuns,"  Peloo  reproved  with  considerable 
asperity,  "an'  the  gent  that's  workin'  it  ain't  a 
vegetable — his  name  happens  to  be  Senor  Tomasso. 
He's  a  I-talian  musicianer  in  the  theatre." 

"Where's  that  other  I-talian  was  here,  Peloo?" 
Red  queried  in  the  way  of  covering  his  defeat. 

"Which  one?  There's  such  a  slue  of  guests  put- 
tin'  up  at  the  Trout  House  now." 

"Lamonte  was  his  name." 

"He  was  a  Frenchy,  an'  he  went  out  perspectin' 
for  the  Lost  Mine.  Leastwise  I  kinder  got  that  give 
me  on  the  side." 

Tomasso  had  struck  up  "The  Suwanee  River" 
with  its  infectious  swing,  and  a  dozen  voices  took  up 
the  refrain  in  twelve  separate  keys. 

278 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  279 

During  the  turmoil  Bill  Slack  and  Toady  Downs 
came  in  and  took  seats  beside  Red. 

"There's  been  a  feller  shot  up,"  Slack  announced. 

"Was  he  a  white  man  or  a  Dago?  Them  Dagoes 
I  always  carvin'  theirselves?"  Red  asked. 

"Hank  Speers  has  gone  out  for  him,"  Slack  an- 
swered. "I  heerd  it  wasfthat  loony  feller  Lamonte, 
that  was  wild  goose  chasin'  after  the  Lost  Mine  up 
in  Keewatin  Hills." 

"Kinder  queer  about  'em  hills,"  Peloo  observed 
solemnly.  "I  don't  take  no  stock  in  ghosts;  but 
there  ain't  nobody  monkeyed  with  that  Lost  Mine 
Injun  story  but  what's  got  the  wu'st  of  it.  Big 
McLean  got  drownded  in  the  Devils  Pool  lookin' 
for  it,  an'  'em  two  halfbreeds,  Descoigns,  they  got 
shot  up,  an'  nobody  never  knew  how." 

"Yes,  there's  a  whole  bunch  of  fellers  killed,  or 
broke  a  leg,  or  spent  their  last  dollar  an'  never  got 
nothin',"  added  Red. 

"That's  old  woman's  yarns!"  Slack  growled  dis- 
dainfully. "I'd  go  up  there  in  a  holy  minute  if  I 
thought  there  was  any  gold.  There  ain't  nothin'  up 
there,  not  even  the  evil  speerits  the  Injuns  tell 
about." 

"Terrible  purty  name  'em  hills  has  got,"  Red  ob- 
served,— "  'Hills  of  the  North  Wind,'  Injune  for 
the  same  bein'  Keewatin.  Most  too  purty  a  name 
for  a  nest  holdin'  only  goblins  an'  evil  speerits." 

The  organ  groaned  dismally  as  Tomasso  pre- 
pared for  a  fresh  assault.  When  he  had  touched 


280  RED  MEEKINS 

their  sympathies  with  "Starlight"  and  been  carried 
off  to  receive  his  reward  at  the  bar,  Peloo  said: 

"Well,  fellers,  I  wouldn't  bet  again'  both  propo- 
sitions. Gold's  been  brung  out  of  'em  hills,  because 
I  seen  it,  an'  I'm  danged  if  you  could  bribe  the 
feller  to  go  back  again  or  tell  where  it  was." 

"Did  he  get  scairt?"  Red  queried. 

"He  must've  seen  somethinV 

"Who  was  it,  Peloo?" 

"Felix  Gouin." 

"He's  a  French  breed,  an'  I  wouldn't  believe  one 
of  that  tribe  on  oath,"  Slack  offered.  "A  breed 
would  run  a  mile  if  an  owl  coughed  in  the  dark. 
Guess  that's  what  he  heerd,  an  owl." 

"Kinder  think  it  was  Gouin  that  put  it  into  La- 
monte's  noodle  to  go  huntin'  for  that  Lost  Mine," 
Peloo  said  reflectively.  "They  was  thick  as  two 
thieves  here  for  about  a  week." 

"If  he  did,  Peloo,  an'  Larnonte's  been  shot  up, 
looks  as  if  there  was  somethin'  in  the  Injun's  story 
about  bad  luck  strikin'  anybody  that  butts  inter 
their  fam'ly  ghost  business,"  Red  suggested. 

"They  was  both  nutty,"  Slack  sneered.  "I  see 
that  Lamonte  about  here,  an'  I  figgered  he  was  off 
his  chump.  I  wouldn't  be  afeared  to  go  up  inter  'em 
hills  the  darkest  kind  of  a  night." 

"Danged  if  I  would,"  Peloo  declared  emphat- 
ically, "an'  I  ain't  afeared  of  anythin'  that  wears 
hair!  I've  heerd  more'n  one  feller  that  was  jus'  as 
full  of  grit  as  you  are,  Slack,  say  they'd  heerd  some 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  281 

dang  queer  noises  in  'em  hills  at  night  when  they  was 
camped  on  Duck  Lake." 

"Talkin'  of  speerits,"  Red  interjected,  "there  is  a 
happy  land  not  far  away.  Come  on,  boys,  lets  sup- 
pose that  bar's  the  Keewatin  Hills,  an'  take  a  fall 
outer  'em  speerits." 

"What  about  us  gettin'  back  to  the  Big  Pine? 
She's  growin'  late,  Red,"  Slack  asked. 

"Soon's  we've  had  a  drink,  Slack,  you  can  slip 
out  an'  get  the  ponies,  an'  we'll  hit  the  trail  for  the 
Big  Pine,"  Red  replied. 

"You're  boss,  Red,"  Slack  concurred  with  willing 
resignation. 

"Better'n  it  uster  be,  Peloo,  when  we  had  to  drink 
lemon  pop,"  Red  said,  removing  with  the  back  of 
his  hand  a  dew  that  lingered  in  the  stubble  of  his 
rufus  moustache.  "Let's  go  an'  hear  Tomato — 
what  d'you  say  his  name  was,  Peloo?" 

"I'll  write  it  on  your  shirt  cuff,  Red." 

"Only  fellers  in  the  hotel  business  can  afford 
b'iled  shirts,"  Meekins  retorted.  'Em  movable 
kind  of  cuffs  you've  got,  Peloo,  is  fu'st  rate  where  a 
feller's  travellin'  light  as  to  his  shirt." 

Slack  and  Downs  had  laughed  at  Peloo's  sally 
because  he  was  master  of  the  bar;  because  Red  had 
stood  treat  they  now  laughed  at  his  retort. 

The  hilarity  was  interrupted  by  the  advent  of 
Constable  Hank  Speers.  He  was  dripping  wet. 

"It's  an  awful  night  I"  was  his  first  greeting. 
"Give  me  a  pint  of  dryin'  fluid,  barkeep." 

"Is  she  rainin',  Hank?"  Red  asked  foolishly. 


282  RED  MEEKINS 

"Rainin' !  Do  I  look  like  it?  It's  a  nice,  lovely 
moonlight  summer  evenin',  only  Egg  Lake  an'  the 
Montreal  River  is  havin'  a  ketch  as  a  ketch  can 
wrastle  up  there  in  the  valley,  an'  I  got  too  clost." 
Then  Speers  turned  to  his  revivifier  with  a  quiet 
assumption  that  Red's  foolish  question  had  merited 
the  reply  courteous. 

"Did  you  get  that  feller  that  somebody 
plugged?"  Peloo  asked. 

"Yes,  an'  the  feller  what  plugged  him,  too,  I 
guess." 

"Gouin!    It  was  Lamonte  was  shot,  wasn't  it? 

"Yes,  an'  I  nabbed  Gouin  sence  I  come  back.  I 
guess  you  can  help,  Peloo.  I  want  to  use  that  feller 
that's  havin'  trouble  with  the  planner  in  there — 
Tommy.  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want,  Peloo."  The 
Constable  drew  a  small  sheet  of  paper  from  his 
pocket  and  spread  it  out  on  the  bar,  continuing, 
"I  got  this  in  Gouin's  pocket  when  I  dropped  on 
him.  You  see  'em  spots  on  it?" 

"Looks  like  blood,"  Peloo  surmised. 

"I  figger  it  is.  An'  that's  music  wrote  on  it,  isn't 
it?" 

Peloo  scanned  the  paper  intently,  and  then  an- 
nounced that  it  was  music. 

"Well,  a  breed  don't  carry  music  round  with  him 
as  a  reg'lar  standby,  an',  there  bein'  blood  on  it,  I 
figger  Gouin  took  that  outer  Lamonte's  pocket  when 
he  shot  him.  That's  a  thumbprint  in  the  corner." 

"Lamonte  was  all  the  time  monkeyin'  with  the 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  283 

organ,  an'  I  see  him  one  day  makin'  a  plan  of  music 
on  paper.  Guess  you're  right,  Hank." 

"What  did  he  want  to  kill  a  feller  to  get  a  bit  of 
music  for?"  Red  asked.  "I  heerd  of  a  feller  up 
north  that  shot  a  Scotchman  for  playin'  the  bag- 
pipes; but  that  was  kinder  to  get  rid  of  music.*' 

"You  got  me,  Red,"  the  Constable  acknowledged 
in  a  perplexed  manner;  "I  can't  make  it  out,  neither. 
But  there  wasn't  nothin'  else  touched  on  Lamonte. 
He  had  a  watch  an'  some  money.  He  was  jus'  lyin' 
there  in  the  pass  leadin'  into  Keewatin  Hills,  lookin' 
as  if  he  was  asleep,  an'  there  was  a  hole  bored 
through  him  commencin'  at  his  back." 

"That's  the  way  a  halfbreed  does  his  shootin', 
from  behind,"  Slack  declared. 

"I  was  thinkin',"  the  Constable  went  on,  "that 
it  might  be  a  good  idee  to  get  Tommy  there  to 
kinder  size  up  this  music  that's  wrote  here." 

"What  for?"  Peloo  asked. 

"I  don't  know  exactly;  but  it's  the  only  clue  we 
got.  I  read  a  lot  of  detective  stories,  an'  sometimes 
a  feller's  run  to  earth  by  a  bit  of  paper — only  clue 
they  had  too.  If  it's  a  letter,  they  get  what  they 
call  a  writin'  expert,  an'  bein'  music  I  guess  Tommy 
there  is  the  only  feller  in  these  parts  that  knows 
anythin'  about  it." 

Peloo  took  the  paper  in  his  hand,  saying,  "I'll 
ask  Sefior  Tomasso  to  see  what  he  can  figger  up 
about  it." 

"I  wouldn't  say  nothin'  to  him  about  where  she 
comes  from,"  Speer  cautioned. 


284 


RED  MEEKIXS 


Tomasso  looked  at  the  music  that  Peloo  handed 
him,  assumed  his  most  professional  air,  placed  it  on 
the  organ,  and  ran  a  few  notes  with  one  hand. 
"Curious,"  he  said,  "I  can't  remember  it.  Think 
it's  by  Wagner." 

"Lamonte  was  the  gent's  name,"  Peloo  blurted 
out,  then  stopped  suddenly  in  confusion  at  a  sharp 
glance  from  the  Constable. 

"Don't  think  it,"  objected  Tomasso.  "I'll  bet 
drinks  for  the  house  it's  Wagner!"  and  again  he 
made  little  tentative  excursions  up  and  down  the 
keys  with  his  fingers.  "Listen  to  this,  gents,"  he 
said  finally,  and  with  elaborate  fingering  he  played : 


Tomasso  was  a  fair  performer,  also  considerable 
of  a  poser;  so  he  threw  his  whole  capacity  into  the 
weird  refrain.  The  organ  wailed  and  reverberated. 
The  barbaric  quality  of  the  music  cut  into  the  ele- 
mental nature  of  the  men  of  the  woods  who  lis- 
tened, their  imaginations  probably  quickened  by  the 
memory  that  the  blood  stained  paper  holding  the 
score  was  now  a  tongued  witness  of  murder — to  the 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  285 

slaying  of  the  man  who  had  lain  out  there  in  the 
moonlight  as  if  asleep  on  the  trail. 

It  was  with  a  sighing  relapse  of  breath  that  Red 
muttered  as  Tomasso  wheeled  from  the  stool, 
"Danged  if  that  ain't  as  creepy  as  the  bagpipes!" 

Tomasso  scowled.  "Bagpipes!"  he  snorted. 
"Did  you  ever  hear  grand  opera?" 

"Guess  I  never  heerd  that  feller  play,"  Red  ad- 
mitted; "but  you're  purty  good  at  it." 

Tomasso's  indignation  fled  at  this  flattery,  and 
he  smiled  complacently  at  Red's  mistake. 

"Could  you  figger  up  anythin'  out  of  that,  Mr, 
Tommy?"  the  Constable  asked. 

"I  don't  understand,"  Tomasso  said. 

"Could  'em  music  things  stand  for  words?" 

Tomasso  looked  puzzled,  not  knowing  of  the  pa- 
per's importance.  In  his  perplexity  he  turned  again 
to  the  organ  and  sang  a  wordless  refrain  to  the 
score.  Red  and  Slack  caught  themselves  humming 
the  weird  refrain.  It  was  creepy,  as  Red  had  de- 
clared. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it's  like,"  Tomasso  said,  as  he 
finished,  "it's  like  a  storm  at  sea  shrieking  through 
the  rigging.  It's  what  we  call  mad  music,  a  seeking 
for  something,  trying  to  harness  the  turmoil  to 
music." 

"It's  kinder  like  that,"  Peloo  agreed. 

"With  some  wolves  throwed  in,  howlin'  their 
level  best,"  Slack  added. 

"Would  you  mind  playin'  it  again,  mister?'* 
Speers  requested. 


286  RED  MEEKINS 

"What're  you  tryin'  to  get  out  of  it?"  Peloo  whis- 
pered. 

"I'll  put  the  screws  on  that  breed  an'  see  if  I  can't 
make  him  sing  that  same  thing — see,  Peloo?  But  I 
want  to  get  kinder  familiar  with  the  rime  of  it." 

When  Tomasso  had  played  the  dirgelike  thing 
for  the  third  time,  Red  said,  "That's  the  kind  of 
music  that  drives  a  feller  to  drink." 

"Bein'  as  you're  so  pressin',  Red,  don't  mind  if  I 
do,"  Peloo  said  suggestively. 

"It  orter  be  on  the  house  for  harborin'  the  cause 
of  complaint,"  Red  proclaimed;  "but  Mr.  Tomat — 
the  musicianer  has  been  mos'  obligin'  an'  entertain- 
in',  an'  my  proposition  goes." 

They  adjourned  to  the  bar,  and  there  was  a  round 
of  drinks. 

Then  Peloo  said,  "The  house  now  rises  to  the 
occasion  to  remark  that  it's  ready  to  discharge  its 
obligations.  What'll  you  have,  gentlemen?" 

The  Constable,  as  cause  of  the  trouble,  felt  called 
upon  to  keep  up  his  end;  so  that  at  the  expiration 
of  half  an  hour,  Tomasso  having  gone  back  to  the 
organ,  the  four  friends  were  left  somewhat  in  a 
mellow,  confidential  mood. 

"I  don't  mind  sayin',  fellers,"  Peloo  remarked, 
"that  I've  heerd  that  kinder  dead  march  piece  be- 
fore." He  looked  with  wise  gravity  at  Speers  and 
winked. 

"That's  what  I  was  sorter  drivin'  at,"  the  Con- 
stable observed.  "Was  it  the  Frenchman  an'  the 
breed?" 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  287 

"It  was,"  Peloo  declared  dramatically.  "That 
danged  breed  would  stand  there  a  howlin'  by  the 
organ,  an'  Lamonte  he's  thumpin'  the  ivories  an* 
scrawlin'  somethin'  on  paper.  See?" 

"Makin'  it  up,"  Speers  suggested,  nodding  his 
head. 

"That  don't  prove  nothin',"  Slack  objected. 
"They  was  both  nutty.  You  fellers  put  me  in  mind 
of  ol'  women  that,  when  they  hear  a  dog  howl,  they 
say  it's  a  sign  somebody's  goin'  to  die." 

"Slack,"  Meekins  put  his  hand  on  the  last  speak- 
er's shoulder,  "you  go  and  get  the  hosses  an'  we'll 
pull  out  for  Big  Pine.  I  know  it's  stopped  rainin', 
I  feel  so  danged  dry.  I  ain't  goin'  to  get  full  to- 
night, 'cause  I'm  on  the  water  wagon." 

Meekins  laughed  foolishly  as  his  foot  missed  the 
stirrup.  "This  black  mud's  so  danged  slip'ry!"  he 
remarked  as  an  extenuating  explanation  to  Peloo 
and  Speers,  who  stood  in  the  doorway.  At  the  next 
try  he  made  it,  and,  lifting  to  the  saddle,  sang  out, 
as  the  impatient  horse  lurched  forward,  "Good- 
night, boys.  Hope  Slack  don't  want  to  go  up  into 
the  Keewatin  Hills  to-night." 

As  the  horsemen  swung  to  the  trail  from  Silver 
City,  the  cupping  hoofs  beneath  them  driving  up  a 
spray  of  soppy  mud,  Slack  uttered  in  staccato  gasps, 
"Guess — it's  stopped  rainin' — 'cause — the  supply 
had  run  out." 

"Must've  come  down  to  beat  Noah's  big  storm," 
Red  added. 

A  huge  moon  leered  at  the  riders  complacently 


288  RED  MEEKINS 

from  over  the  tree  softened  outline  of  Keewatin 
Hills  as  their  horses  ate  into  the  westward  trail  at  a 
pounding  gallop.  The  two  men  had  lapsed  into  the 
silence  that  comes  with  sleeping  Nature's  hush. 
Where  the  trail  swept  the  base  of  Keewatin  Hills 
with  the  curve  of  Eugene's  cimitar,  suddenly  loomed, 
like  a  cavern  door,  dark  and  forbidding,  the  Devils 
Pass. 

"That's  where  Lamonte  got  hisn,"  Red  said. 

Fifty  yards  beyond,  Slack  muttered,  "Comes  of 
hookin'  up  with  a  breed.  He  orter  knowed  better'n 
to  travel  with  one  of  that  kidney." 

Another  half-mile,  silent  but  for  the  rubberlike 
pound  of  the  hoofs,  and  with  a  snort  of  affright, 
Red's  horse  stiffened  his  fore  legs,  swerved,  and 
then  stood  still,  throwing  his  head  irritably  up  and 
down,  the  bit  clanking  against  his  set  teeth. 

Meekins  was  diligently  trying  to  recover  his 
equilibrium. 

"Danged  if  the  bridge  ain't  gone !"  Slack  de- 
clared. "Black  Water's  chewed  it  up,  that's  what 
it's  done!" 

Meekins  looked  with  angry  reproach  at  the  surg- 
ing flood  which  had  swept  away  the  primitive 
wooden  bridge.  "Well,  I'm  dashed!"  he  growled. 
"How're  we  goin'  to  get  to  the  Big  Pine  now?" 

"We  can't,"  Slack  answered  flatly.  "There  ain't 
a  hoss  livin'  that'd  tackle  that  cranky  crick,  an'  if 
he  did  he  couldn't  get  up  that  straight  bank  acrost." 

"Well,  I'm  danged!"  Red  objurgated. 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  289 

"There's  nothin'  for  it  but  to  go  back  to  Peloo's," 
Slack  said  resignedly. 

"An'  get  the  laugh  throwed  into  us  good  an' 
plenty,"  Meekins  contributed.  "Peloo'd  be  in  bed, 
an'  everythin'  shut  up." 

"We  got  to  go,"  Slack  persisted. 

"I  ain't  goin'  back  six  miles  like  a  danged  fool!" 
Red  declared.  "Goin'  back  there  means  boozin'.  I 
been  off  the  liquor  for  three  months  'cept  to-night, 
an'  I  ain't  going  to  take  a  chanst.  We'd  have  to 
wait  two  or  three  days,  p'r'aps,  an'  I  got  to  be  on 
my  claim  to-morrer." 

"How' re  you  goin'  to  get  there?"  Slack  asked 
sarcastically. 

"By  ridin'  the  trail  through  Keewatin  Pass,  that's 
how!  'Tain't  more'n  four  miles  farder." 

Meekins  swung  his  horse  as  he  said  this.  Slack 
turned  his  mount  and  in  silence  rode  at  the  other's 
side.  At  the  mouth  of  Devils  Pass  Slack  checked 
his  steed,  saying: 

"  'Tain't  much  use  goin'  in  there.  A  feller's  jus' 
as  like  to  hit  the  wrong  trail  an'  fetch  up  at  Loon 
Lake." 

"Thought  you  wasn't  feared  of  'em  squaw 
stories,"  Red  sneered. 

"I  ain't  feared  of  nothin'  no  more'n  you  are," 
Slack  retorted  angrily;  "but  I  don't  want  to  go 
moonin'  round  like  a  stray  goat  jus'  for  the  fun  of 
the  thing." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  the  Big  Pine  to-night  by  this 
trail!"  Red  declared.  "All  I  got  to  do  is  keep 


290  RED  MEEKINS 

bearin'  to  the  lef  an'  come  out  inter  Kettle  Valley; 
then  it's  as  good  as  a  sidewalk  to  the  Big  Pine.  If 
you  want  to  go  back  to  Peloo's,  Slack,  jus'  tell  'em 
that  the  air  up  in  these  hills  kinder  made  your  lungs 
ache  an'  you  didn't  care  to  tackle  it.  Don't  say 
nothin'  about  the  ghosts,  or  they'll  laugh  at  you." 

"Of  all  the  danged  fellers  to  be  sot  in  their  way 
that  I  ever  see,  you've  got  'em  skinned  both  ways  of 
the  jack,  Mr.  Meekins!  You're  wussin'  a  kid,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  play  the  fool  humourin'  you.  Shove 
along,  an'  we'll  .see  who's  afeared  an'  who's  a 
dang " 

But  Meekins  had  slipped  into  the  gloom  of  the 
pass;  for  the  moon  had  now  dipped  behind  the  bar- 
rier of  Keewatin  Hills  and  the  penciled  line  of  the 
trail  had  blurred  to  nothing. 

With  heads  low  hung  in  the  freedom  of  slacked 
rein  the  horses  sought  the  trail  with  cautious  stride. 
Sometimes  a  stone  clinked  a  metallic  note  from  the 
iron  shoes;  sometimes  a  quickened  rush  told  of  a 
muskeg  stretch;  sometimes  a  rocky  wall  brushed 
leg  or  arm  as  the  path  they  rode  looped  some  sharp 
point;  but  always  they  drove  into  a  deeper  gloom 
which  lay  in  heaviness  upon  their  hearts.  Strange 
broken  fragments  of  the  organ's  wail  came  haunt- 
ingly  to  Meekins  in  the  sombre  stillness  of  the 
gorge.  Once  Slack's  horse  misplaced  a  hoof  and 
floundered  on  the  giving  edge  of  a  cut  bank,  and, 
startled,  he  cried  out  in  sudden  fear;  then  he 
coughed  and  swore  to  reassert  his  nerve. 

"Kinder  dark,"  Red  threw  back;  "but  in  a  mile 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  291 

she'll  hit  the  open.     I  been  through  here  wunst." 

The  uplift  of  the  horses'  backs  told  that  they 
climbed  a  heavy  grade.  A  wind  blew  in  their  faces 
now;  it  chilled  as  though  beyond  lay  snow. 

"We're  gettin'  there,"  Red  called  back  to  Slack. 
"I'm  gettin'  ol'  Keewatin's  breath." 

"I  wisht  he  was  gettin'  a  punch  in  the  face !" 
Slack  muttered  to  himself.  "I'd  like  to  give  him 
one." 

Soft  wailing  strains  came  from  the  pine  boughs 
overhead  as  the  wind  cut  through  their  wirelike 
screen.  Afraid,  Slack  rode  with  nerves  as  vibrant 
as  though  he  dangled  over  a  precipice.  He  almost 
screamed  in  agony  when  something,  perhaps  a 
startled  wolf,  fled  in  noisy  haste  across  their  path. 
The  horses  snorted.  They  too  seemed  on  the  edge 
of  fear. 

"I  was  a  fool  to  come  inter  these  danged  hills!" 
Slack  muttered. 

Red  spoke  to  his  horse  some  needless  word,  as 
though  he  sought  a  change  to  the  silent  strain. 

Gradually,  imperceptibly,  the  wind  grew  stronger 
as  they  rode  the  hill.  The  music  of  the  pines  was 
now  one  lengthened  hum,  as  though  bees  hung  on 
every  limb. 

"We're  on  top,  Slack,"  Red  advised,  as  their 
horses  flattened  to  level  going.  "This  gully  is  on 
the  divide;  then  we  dip  down  into  the  valley." 

"This  wind's  blamed  strong!"  Slack  growled. 
"She  blows  through  here  like  a  funnel." 

"This  cut  ain't  more'n  ten  feet  wide,  that's  why," 


292  RED  MEEKINS 

Red  explained,  "an*  the  sides  is  about  three  hun'red 
feet  up.  Guess  this  is  where  the  gold  is — or  pVaps 
the  ghosts." 

Slack  shivered,  and  exclaimed,  for  the  horses  had 
checked  after  the  stiff  climb,  "Push  on,  oP  man,  I'm 
about  sick  of  this  dungeon!" 

Their  way  lay  over  stones  which  caused  their 
mounts  to  flounder  as  they  rode.  They  left  behind 
the  heavier  gloom  of  the  lower  hills,  and  some  re- 
flected moonlight  crept  through  the  gorge. 

A  hundred  yards  beyond  the  narrow  cleft  was 
ended  by  an  amphitheatre;  it  was  like  a  colosseum. 
On  its  edge  Red  checked  his  horse  to  say: 

"There's  two  or  three  openin's  leads  from  this. 
I  guess  ours  is  the  fu'st  one  on  the  left." 

His  words  echoed  back  from  the  encircling  walls. 
The  sound  caused  Slack  to  say: 

"The  wind's  died  out  all  of  a  suddent." 

His  voice  was  cut  by  a  demoniac  scream  which 
died  away  in  a  low  wailing  note  of  anguish.  Slack 
felt  his  scalp  twitch.  A  cold  chill  crept  up  his  back, 
and  on  his  forehead  beads  of  perspiration  clung 
cold  and  clammy.  The  horses  stood  in  trembling 
fright. 

"What's  that,  Red?    My  God!    What " 

The  wailing  note  which  had  sunk  to  nothing  came 
again,  faint,  growing  in  strength,  until  at  the  pitch 
of  a  scream  it  was  smothered  by  a  roaring  medley, 
as  though  huge  fiends  fought  in  the  arena  of  the 
encircling  walls. 

Slack's  horse,  terror  stricken,  or  perhaps  the  man, 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  293 

drunk  with  fear,  drove  with  unconscious  hand,  gal- 
loped off  to  the  left  and  through  the  first  opening 
in  the  rocky  barrier. 

Red's  horse  plunged  and  fought  against  the  pull 
of  his  rider's  hands.  Fighting  they  struggled  across 
the  amphitheatre  with  its  wailing  cries.  Through 
another  cleft  in  the  rocks  the  horse  sought  for  es- 
cape. Struggling,  trying  to  check  the  frightened 
beast,  Red  was  smashed  against  a  jutting  rock 
which  caught  a  leg  and  swept  him  from  the  saddle, 
where  he  lay  stunned  by  the  fall. 

He  lay  for  a  long  time  crumpled  up  among  the 
boulders.  The  gray  light  of  dawn  crept  in  through 
the  creviced  rock,  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes 
wearily  it  was  day. 

Half  stupid,  the  wailing  voices  of  the  rocks  threw 
him  back  all  the  hours  since  he  had  left  the  house  of 
Peloo.  "Say,  Peloo,"  he  muttered,  drowsily,  "I'm 
sick  of  that  tune !  Tell  Tomato  to  stop  playin'  the 
melojun." 

Returning  consciousness  told  him  all  the  hard, 
bitter  facts,  brushed  away  the  cobwebs  from  his 
unnerved  brain.  He  looked  out  on  the  cold  gray 
rocks,  and  then  the  memory  of  his  horse,  the  ride  up 
the  hill,  the  fight  for  lost  control,  the  crashing  fall, 
came  back  in  jostling  sequence.  And  all  the  time 
the  heavy  roar,  the  wailing,  vibrant  note,  alternated 
with  sudden  times  of  quiet. 

Red  tried  to  rise.  With  a  cry  of  pain  he  fell 
back.  One  leg  lay  useless,  wrenched  somewhere. 
As  he  lay  helpless  his  mind  took  up  the  vivid  things 


294  RED  MEEKINS 

of  the  night,  pondering  all  the  many  whys  and  hows. 
It  was  a  time  to  think,  a  good  chance  for  a  slow 
working  mind  to  solve  problems. 

After  a  long  time  he  chuckled;  then  he  swore 
softly.  "I  jus'  got  to  lay  here  till  Slack  hikes  back 
to  find  out  why  I  ain'  comin',"  he  said  to  an  unob- 
trusive rock  that  nestled  at  his  shoulder;  "but  I  got 
these  sounds  kinder  sorted  out.  Guess  I  been 
dumped  right  in  the  Injuns'  ghost  factory." 

He  gazed  long  and  contemplatively  at  a  sharp 
wedge  of  rock,  V  shaped,  that  broke  the  circled  wall 
to  his  left. 

"It's  the  wind,"  he  soliloquized.  "This  danged 
hole's  built  kinder  like  an  organ — wuss'n  Peloo's." 
Even  as  he  spoke  the  wind,  which  blew  in  fitful 
gusts,  split  by  the  trident  rock,  cried  out  in  pain,  its 
echoes  booming  from  the  other  wall.  "Yes,  'em's 
the  ghosts,"  he  said  conclusively.  "It's  dang  like 
that  thing  Tomato  played,  too !" 

His  own  words  suggested  to  Meekins  a  startling 
new  line  of  thought.  At  first  it  was  too  subtle  and 
tentative  for  expression.  Shortly  he  worked  it  out, 
and  slowly. 

"I've  got  it!"  he  muttered  after  a  time.  "That 
lost  gold  mine  is  here  somewheres.  That  greasy 
breed  found  it,  got  scared  out,  an'  was  tellin'  La- 
monte  how  to  find  it  by  these  wind  noises.  Lamonte 
writ  it  down  to  kinder  remember  it,  so  he'd  know 
when  he  come  to  the  spot.  (Wisht  Slack'd  come. 

My  leg's  painin'  like )  Then  that  fool  breed 

gets  crazy,  an'  is  sorry  for  givin'  up  the  secret,  or 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  295 

was  sorry  he  gave  away  about  the  gold,  or  some- 
thin',  pumps  a  bullet  inter  Lamonte,  an'  steals  the 
paperback.  That's  what!" 

At  the  end  of  an  hour  the  unearthly  music  had 
ceased;  the  craterlike  opening  in  the. rocks  was  quiet 
and  restful  as  a  cavern  should  be. 

Red  explained  this  phenomenon  to  his  friend  the 
boulder.  "The  wind's  died  out  or  shifted,  I  guess." 

As  Meekins  idly  scanned  the  rocky  wall  at  his 
back  he  suddenly  gave  a  cry  of  startled  joy.  A  two- 
foot  vein  of  white  quartz  showed  little  splashes  of 
bright  yellow  where  the  peeping  sun  threw  a  shaft 
of  light  on  its  face.  He  squirmed  over  on  his  side, 
drew  a  knife  from  his  pocket,  and  picked  at  one  of 
these. 

"By  hokey,  it's  gold!"  he  said  in  an  awed  voice. 
"I've  found  the  Lost  Mine,  sure  as  shootin' !" 

Then  he  lay  gazing  in  quiet  content  at  the  vein  of 
richness.  For  another  hour  he  lay  waiting  for  the 
advent  of  relief,  his  patience  due  entirely  to  his 
inability  to  perform  otherwise.  Then  the  ring  of 
ironed  hoofs  on  the  stony  path  raised  a  medley  of 
echoes  from  the  resonant  walls.  Slack's  voice 
boomed  in  giant  tones.  Some  other  man  that  rode 
with  him  laughed,  and  myriad  fiends  cackled  in  this 
freakish  place  of  noise. 

"Wisht  I  had  a  foghorn  to  try  this  out,"  Red 
joked  at  himself,  his  spirits  lightened  by  the  coming 
relief. 

From  where  he  lay  Meekins  saw  a  horse's  head 
poke  through  the  narrow  inlet  on  the  right.  "I'll 


296  RED  MEEKINS 

give  her  one  boost,"  he  chuckled,  "an*  touch  up 
Slack's  nerve,  jus'  for  fun." 

With  that  he  bellowed  like  a  bull,  and  wild  beasts 
seemed  to  fill  the  arena  with  their  rage.  Red  saw 
the  riders  check  their  horses  in  dismay  and  peer 
about  the  place  in  sudden  fear. 

"Guess  I'd  best  not  get  too  gay,"  he  muttered. 
"Slack'll  bolt."  He  hardly  raised  his  voice  above 
a  whisper  as  he  called,  "Here  I  am,  Slack.  Yours 
truly,  Red  Meekins." 

Reassured,  Slack  pushed  his  horse  into  the  huge 
potlike  place  and,  sighting  Meekins,  slipped  from 
the  saddle. 

"Hope  you  had  your  breakfast,  Bill,"  Red  ob- 
served ironically. 

"I  come  soon's  I  saw  you  wasn't  turnin'  up," 
Slack  offered  in  extenuation  of  his  delay.  "Are  you 
hurted?" 

"My  left  leg's  on  strike  an'  won't  walk  none," 
Meekins  answered.  "Glad  you  knowed  enough  to 
bring  that  spare  hoss." 

"I  rounded  up  Dave  here  to  come  along  an'  help 
look  for  you,"  Slack  contributed  in  the  way  of  fur- 
ther extenuation.  "We'll  lift  you  to  the  saddle  now. 
Can  you  sit  a  hoss  with  your  sore  leg?" 

"Soon's  I've  finished  a  little  business  I  come  here 
for  to  transact,"  Red  answered  quaintly.  He 
winked  at  Dave  as  he  asked,  "Slack,  you're  workin' 
for  me  by  the  day,  ain't  you?" 

"I  allow  I  am." 

"But   on   this   extra    occasion    that   don't   go," 


HILLS  OF  THE  WIND  297 

Meekins  said.  He  pointed  a  finger  at  the  rocky 
wall  across  the  narrow  cleft  and  added,  "Jus*  stake 
that  vein  of  quartz  carryin'  free  millin'  gold  in  the 
name  of  Meekins,  Slack  &  Co.  Then  we'll  get  back 
to  camp.  I'm  kinder  hungry.  Guess  we'll  call  her 
the  Ghost  Mine." 


THE  END 


